


Hold On Until Dawn

by JCRGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:20:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 133,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24252739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCRGirl/pseuds/JCRGirl
Summary: *REPOST FROM LJ*AU after the events of Devil's Trap (1x22). John's alive and there is no deal. In October of 2007 Castiel brings a case to Sam and Dean that takes them to Pike Creek, Delaware and in all appearances seems like a case that was never fully solved when they were in town in October of 2000. They settle into the town and their cover roles easily enough, though the hunt itself is puzzling and elusive. However, Sam's edgy and secretive and Dean's not exactly thrilled to be back in the town where Sam first got it in his head to go to Stanford. At least they have the generous help of John's old Marine buddy and closest friend outside of the supernatural world—who Sam seems to have an inexplicable problem with. Dean will find, just as Sam did when he was sixteen that the supernatural aren’t the only horrifying things that stir in the coldest hours just before the dawn.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ* This is the story of a story. This story was started by the wonderfully talented Insercode11. She posted the first three chapters and wrote an additional three. When she wasn't able to finish this fic, I volunteered to complete it. I only hope to live up to her beautiful beginning. This Chapter is her original work, reposted to re-familiarize us all on where we last saw our boys. All praise belongs to her.

Dean wakes up feeling like he is strapped to a furnace. He groans and shifts, finding it difficult to move freely. A long, pencil-point thin strip of light shines where the thick curtains don't quite touch and nearly blind him in the otherwise dark room. 

Gradually, his mind starts to differentiate between awake and dreaming and he feels the weight of gravity and awareness press on him, slowly waking him. He also becomes aware of the hot temple and cheek cradles in the crook of his left shoulder and chest. The weight there cuts off his circulation and his fingers tingle uncomfortably. But there is also soft breath fanning across his chest, whispering across his nipple and despite the blazing furnace he shivers. 

A heavy arm was slings across his torso. Long, thin fingers hook into his right hip like a lifeline. Sam’s naked thigh falls between his legs and rubs against his crotch which explains the fire down there, at least. Dean shifts again, whether to get more air or more friction even he isn’t entirely sure. When he moves he feels the delicious silky smooth skin of Sam’s upper thigh nudge his cock Dean grunts, bucks his hips once, twice, for more leverage. 

Moving suddenly, he hooks his hands beneath Sam’s arms and pulls and tugs him until his little brother is sprawled on top of him. Dean huffs under the weight, but doesn't mind it. 

The weight of Sam on top of him is somehow sweeter and more liberating than sleep and dreaming. Sam grunts discontentedly during the upheaval but immediately falls back asleep, his nose and lips pressed against Dean’s neck. Grinning now, Dean reaches and cups Sam’s head with both hands, pulling on him until Dean could reach Sam’s lips with his own. Sam’s mouth is parted in his sleep so Dean enters like it's an open invitation. He lazily explores Sam’s mouth, taking special care to tease the roof of it. 

Sam grumbles into Dean’s mouth, lazily meets his brother’s tongue, sighs and brings up his left hand, pushing his palm into Dean’s face and lifting up from Dean’s lips. Sam lurches over until his face is buried into the pillow to the right of Dean’s neck. Sam pats his face indulgently and Dean has to shut his eyes to avoid long, errant fingers. 

“Thas’ nice, D’n. Wanna sleep.” Sam commands and snuffles further into the pillow as he lets his hand slip off of Dean’s face. Dean huffs, torn between annoyance and amusement. Still, he won't be deterred. He begins licking and nibbling at the long stretch of neck exposed to him. He runs his hands up and down muscled sides and digs the pads of his fingers into a tapered waist. He moves to Sam’s ass, kneading the flesh there. He moans when the pressure forces Sam’s hips to grind against his own. He lifts his hips again, creating slow friction. 

He pushes and pulls Sam’s flesh, slipping a finger along the base of Sam’s spine. Sam moans and his hips stutter and Dean grins in triumph. Gyrating slowly, Dean continues to let his finger stroke up and down the cleft of Sam’s ass. Dean could feel Sam’s shiver in his own soul and can't help but to move a little harder and faster, desperate now to crawl into Sam and never leave. 

Sam finally, finally, moves. One of Sam’s hands grip Dean’s hair, pulling him off of Sam’s neck. Dean sees Sam’s head move before he feels wet, hot on his right nipple. 

Dean can't see Sam’s face very clearly because of the dark, but he feels the flutter of eyelashes and knows that Sam’s eyes are closed, relishing in his work. Sam suckles and nips, lavishing careful attention and exploration that they hadn’t indulged in what seemed like years. Dean was almost unaware of his hips thrusting faster, seeking more contact, more heat, more Sam. 

“C’mere, babe.” Dean says as he leans forward, tugging Sam until their chapped lips crash. 

“Don’ call me tha’.” Sam mumbles into his mouth but Dean can feel a sweet smile painted across his lips. 

“You know you love it.” Dean rumbles. 

His hands, which haven’t faltered their busy teasing, pull at Sam’s cheeks, that one daring finger skimming over Sam’s hole once, twice, before circling it. Sam moans and gasps and grinds into Dean in encouragement. Sam rides Dean in the dark. 

They go slow, enjoying the build-up. Dean eases into velvet tight heat. He teases with nudges, then opens Sam up with excruciatingly slow with shallow thrusts. When Sam is seated he only tilts his head back and rolls his hips, and Dean lets him enjoy the feeling of fullness because though he burns to move he also basks in the feeling of home and here and never going to leave you. 

Dean watches as the thin strip of light the heavy dark curtains failed to cut off slip-slides and rolls over Sam’s skin like dawn so that Sam is the only thing in the dark room that shines. Sam lifts and falls, slow and short for only a minute before it’s too much for both of them and Sam falls faster and Dean lifts harder. Dean sees Sam’s abs flutter and heave, sees Sam’s breaths becoming shorter and faster. 

Sam moans loudly sitting up and in the light while Dean grunts quietly down in the bed in the dark. Dean grips Sam’s hips harder, wanting to leave his fingerprints. 

When they’re close—and Dean knows when because Sam’s nails are digging deeper into Dean’s arms and Dean can’t seem to breathe though all he hears is his breathing—Dean begins to stroke Sam’s dick. He’s not sure because he can’t think right now but a few strokes are meant to be teasing—slow pull and flick across his slit. But soon Dean is pulling and twisting hard and fast and Sam lets go of Dean and arches back, free-falling through orgasm, coating Dean’s hand with his warmth. Dean shoves hard into Sam again and groans through his own release and shutters through the weightlessness. 

When Dean opens his eyes again, not knowing that he closed them, he has a second to see Sam riding through the remnants, his throat stretched back and Adam’s apple bobbing. When they’re breathing again, Dean helps Sam pull up. Sam collapses full-body onto Dean who’s unprepared and loses his breath. 

“Gettin’ heavy there, darlin’.” Dean drawls as Sam seems to gather enough strength to slide off of him and back onto the bed. 

“Shut up, Dean. Sleep now.” Sam says as if he exchanged sex for more sleep. But then Sam opens his eyes and Dean can clearly see hazel for the first time that morning, but Sam's eyes are the only thing he can half way make out. Sam smiles and Dean only knows this because his fingers are over Sam’s lips. 

It’s moments before Sam’s breathing evens out and by that time Dean’s pretty much decided that they’re not leaving bed for the rest of the day. He kisses Sam’s forehead and pulls and shifts until Sam is on his side facing Dean and Dean’s arm is locked around Sam’s waist and their legs are tangled. 

“Cuddler.” Sam accuses though he snuffles and wiggles until he’s comfortable. “’M so not.” Retorts, trying for indignant. 

“You flail and kick in your sleep. Just tryin’ to protect myself.” Sleep’s coaxing his eyelids and sound keeps on fading in and out as he starts to go under. 

“’Kay, Dee.” In rumpled sheets and sweaty skin, Dean goes to sleep to the feeling of eyelashes sighing against his collarbone.

***

Dean is yanked out of sleep a second time by Sam’s indignant squawk and one of his flailing limbs connecting with Dean’s chest. Dean has fast reactions, but before he can even open his eyes Sam’s already jumped so hard he rolls off the bed, landing with a hard oomph! in the space between the bed and the wall.

Dean jabbed his hand under the pillow, coming out with one of Sam’s knives as he jackknifes into a sitting position. He has just a split second for his brain to register 'Cas' before he came face to face literally with the angel. Pain sparks white behind Dean’s eyes and he drops back to the bed, knife cast aside as he clutches at his nose and forehead.

“Holy shit, Cas!” He yells at the angel who remains unmoved except for a slight tilt of his head, except Dean’s sinuses are already swelling with the impact so it comes out “’Oly thit, Cath!”

Castiel merely looks puzzled at the spectacle, either unsure as to why Dean was wriggling in pain or not quite understanding the extreme reaction of the Winchester brothers.

Sam’s long, thin hands appear over the edge of the bed, scrambling for purchase in the sheets to haul himself back up. As Dean writhes pitifully Sam regards the angel who perches cross-legged in the middle of the bed, staring at them both with his head cocked slightly to the side. 

His “tax accountant” outfit was rumpled and the tie loose from where Castiel has no real concept (yet, Dean's working on it) of self-image.

“What the hell?” Sam did not squeak. He yanks the comforter and pulls it around his nakedness before throwing the sheet over Dean, who was too busy cursing and nursing his face to notice that he was splayed and nude before an Angel of the Lord. “Cas. I thought we talked about these surprise drop-ins?”

Cool blue eyes turn from their serious contemplation of Dean’s antics to Sam, who looks highly embarrassed and a little panicked. Apparently, Castiel had startled the brothers. However, he had only wanted to get their attention. He lets his gaze take in the nakedness of his charges, admiring his Father’s work. 

“I was waiting for you to wake up.” Castiel answers simply. Sam knew that the twitch at the angel’s lips meant that he was smiling fondly at them. However, Sam didn’t feel particularly grateful for the angel's intense attention this morning, his heart still racing from the scare of waking up to someone leaning over him. 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Cas. Personal space? Not to mention watching us sleep is kind of creepy. Why didn’t you just wake us up?”

Cas sways a little and it is as close to a shrug as they were going to get. “I did not want to be rude.” Sam scoffs at the irony.

“Oh my God.” Dean moaned from the bed. “What are you made out of? Granite?!” He slowly lifted his hand from his face and turned to Sam, his eyes watery and big. “’M I bleedin’?”

Sam shakes his head and Dean frowns. “Maybe just a little?” Sam rolls his eyes again and Dean pouts. “It still hurts.” Dean whines and lifts his eyebrows so suggestively that him actually saying ‘kiss it better’ would be more subtle.

“You’re shameless.” Sam declares and fails completely to hide his affectionate smile when Dean beams proudly at him.

“Actually.” Castiel feels the need to explain because despite the Winchester’s occasional surprising amount of knowledge and ingenuity, they seem to be clueless about most things. “Angels are not made of granite, but rather the Grace of Heaven. I am made of an impenetrable light.”

Sam seems vaguely interested while Dean sports a blank look. “Oh. That’s. Enlightening.” Sam tries to grasp for words when it becomes apparent Castiel is waiting for some kind of response.

“Why are you two without clothes together?” Cas asks and Sam makes this painful sound that immediately concerns the angel.

“You know…” Dean waves a hand around vaguely. “We’ve had this talk, Cas.”

Puzzled at Dean’s non-answer (it was incredibly hard for humans to talk directly, it seemed) Castiel made to make further inquiries when Sam interrupts. “What’s up, Cas? Why are you here?” Sam asks, trying to steer Cas towards the reason behind the rude interruption (which was more important than giving the angel “the talk” in Sam’s book). Sam stands up, wincing a little at the lingering burn in his backside.

“There’s a hunt—“ Cas begins but is cut off when Dean groans and kicks his legs childishly against the bed.

“No. Oh no no, no! This is our vacation! We aren't even supposed to get out of bed today!” From the floor Sam raises an eyebrow because he hadn’t been part of that plan—not that he didn’t mind it. In fact, it sounds a hell of a lot better than heading straight for the Roadhouse only to listen to Dad and Ellen’s creepy, angry old-people flirting. Sam had actually been thinking of trying to get Dean to go to a beach somewhere before it got too cold. 

“Then we were gonna go to the Roadhouse!” Now Dean was full on pouting and Castiel looks stunned and slightly uncomfortable by the behavior while Sam shoots the angel a commiserating and sympathetic glance. Dean normally doesn't refuse a hunt Cas gets for them and usually wants the angel to help. However, they had hunted almost non-stop for the past several weeks thanks to Cas’s “help” and they were tired. So, Dean was pouting and dragging his feet on this one because they really needed a break.

“What is the point of spending all day naked in bed?” Castiel muses.

“Forgot you are a three-millennia-year-old virgin.” Dean deadpans.

Castiel frowns. “The opportunity never presented itself, I told you. And you did not answer.”

“Yes, I did.” Dean insists as a dismissal and swivels his pitiful face to Sam. “Granite-Face gave me a headache.”

Sam makes a show of sighing laboriously before wandering to the first aid kit.

Castiel’s lips thin out. “The medieval Persians used a mix of opium, cannabis, and the oil from the willow tree to remedy the headache, I believe.” Castiel shifts. “I shall go get these for you.”

“Wait!” Sam exclaims and places his hand on Castiel’s shoulder before the angel could disappear. “Thanks, Cas. But I have aspirin.” He gives the bottle a shake for emphasis. “It’ll do just fine.”

Castiel nods, studying the bottle in Sam’s hands, figuring this must be the current remedy for headaches. He looks up and Sam smiles kindly at him before moving to tend his brother.

“What is it? The hunt?” Sam asks as he hands Dean the aspirin and a cup of water.

“I’m not sure.” Castiel says, something like a rueful look floating to Sam. “I just know that a few people are already dead. When I went there the air was…heavy with something negative.”

Dean looks at Cas from beneath the hand that shields his eyes from the light Sam just flipped on and Sam pauses in his rummaging through his duffle bag. “You wanna be a little more vague, Cas?” Dean asked.

“Negative. Not necessarily evil, but something...malcontent. It permeates the entire town. Whatever this is, it is serious.” Castiel attempts to explain. 

“Hell, that’s not ominous at all.” Dean snarks around his water. “Look. Cas. I’m glad you’re helping us out with hunts and everything, really. But last night was the first time we had more than a four hours night sleep in days. We haven’t had a decent meal in just as long. And we’re going to go to wherever because your Spidey-sense tells us to?”

“I do not understand that reference.”

“Please get dressed, Dean.” Sam murmurs as he sets out clean clothes on the dresser for after his shower. “It just looks like foreplay when you’re arguing with an angel that's in your bed without clothes on.”

“I do not see why it matters." Castiel says with genuinely curious glance towards Sam. "Dean has a masculine body that is pleasing to the eye and is a supreme example of my Father’s work.”

Dean grins and sits up in bed, leaning against the headboard and inspects his own muscular body. “Hear that, Sammy?” He looks up. “I’m a work of God-art. I’m the poster boy for perfection.” He preens as he folds his hands behind his head. “It’s all natural, too. Don’t have to work on it at all.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Poster boy for humility, you mean.” But Sam really can’t help but run an appreciative eye over Dean’s exposed body. Broad shoulders and chest, strong stomach and abs. Dean was all hard, strong planes that could hold Sam down and—Sam swallows, his eyes widening. He was getting an erection with Castiel in the room. He was getting an erection in front of an angel of the Lord—practically in front of God!

Cas continues over Sam’s side comment. “However, Sam is more aesthetically appealing to the eye and proportional, most likely because he is taller than you, Dean so it should be obvious people will gravitate to him more physically,”

Sam freezes and Dean’s eyes fly wide. 

“What?” Dean cries, wounded. Sam scrambles for the discarded jeans from last night, not wanting his body to be the subject of further conversation. 

“Well, I mean, yeah Sammy’s pretty hot.” Dean amends his exclamation because it is hard to fight Cas on this because while Dean knew he was a sexy piece of perfection, Dean kinda also thought that his Sammy was beautiful. Not that he would admit to that in any situation besides the brink of orgasm. First of all, it was kinda girly. Also, Sam might kill him. 

“I-I’m more masculine, right?” Dean asks instead, hopeful.

Sam throws Dean’s boxers in his face before Castiel can answer. Dean pouts a little at him but Sammy’s back is turned as he buttons his jeans so Dean gets distracted. He throws aside the covers to put the boxers on, not really caring if Cas saw him naked because it wouldn’t be the first time. However, Cas popping in on them both naked and in bed together was new. 

Two months after Cas rescued them, he had popped in on them kissing. Sam and Dean were still heavily injured at the time and could barely move but were finally both awake and reunited. It wasn’t much of a make-out session since it was hard for Sam to move his upper body and Dean’s left leg was still in a brace. Sam had been incredibly demure around the angel back then, so Dean with his caustic attitude had asked if Castiel had a problem with his charges being involved in a homosexual and incestuous relationship.

Castiel had responded simply and honestly that he believed that God was just happy that the two had found love. The point of Christ’s sacrifice, after all, had been to redirect the Old Testament’s laws and reestablish love and free will as the basis of Christianity and all of God’s creation. Also, Castiel had pointed out, laws against incest originated in ancient Babylon with the Code of Hammurabi and was established in order to keep genetic lines pure and strong in order to have a strong empire. In fact, the Jews had not had written laws or history until their captivity in Babylon and many of the Babylonians laws and customs were included in Scripture, including “eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth” and laws against incest.

And so Castiel had glided right past the heavy moral issues of Sam and Dean’s relationship and got right to the awkward questions like how did two males have sex with each other, anyway? Sam suspected that while Castiel was curious about sex as an act itself, he was more interested in the concept of a romantic relationship since the only relationship he had experienced in Heaven was the one of brotherhood between him and other angels.

“All I’m saying is that we’re already on our way to the Roadhouse. We’re tired. And you’re not even sure that there is a hunt.” Dean returns to the main topic.

“But I am sure.” Castiel insists while rising to his feet. “I said that there was a hunt.”

“You’re a lousy guardian angel, making us work all the time.” Dean insists petulantly. The sigh Castiel lets out is nothing short of explosive. The Winchesters, particularly Dean, had a talent for pushing Castiel’s patience. And Castiel gets a little defensive when they depict him as a cherub-like angel on their shoulder—a habit that they have failed to grow out of despite Castiel’s best efforts. 

He liked protecting the Winchesters. Dean was a good man, a protector, courageous, and unfailingly loyal. Sam was also a good man, righteous, kind, and pure despite many tragedies and Azazel’s influence. 

As much as he liked them, however, they seemed to go out of their way to vex him. Sam had once explained it as “teasing” and that it was a sign of affection. Though they could be frustrating, this “teasing” was an improvement from their initial reactions to the truth that angels really did exist. Sam had always believed in God and angels, but he had been intimidated and self-conscious around Castiel at first and still was on occasion. Dean had been almost impossible. Angry, sarcastic, almost cruel to Castiel (not that it mattered to the angel at the time). 

It had taken time, but eventually Castiel had determined that Dean was so angry because he couldn’t believe that angels and God were real and didn’t do anything to save their mother, or Sam’s girlfriend Jessica, or victims of demons and other supernatural creatures. Castiel had uselessly endeavored to explain to Dean. Sam had intervened then, talking to the angel alone face to face for the first time to tell him he just had to give Dean time and he would adjust on his own. 

“I’m not a guardian angel. I’m a warrior of the Lord.” He corrects primly. “This isn’t like you to turn down a hunt. I said that this could be bad. What’s really keeping you?”

“Fine!” Dean declares, throwing his arms out. “Me and Sam haven’t had sex in forever!”

“Dean!” That came from Sam, who had moved to finish cleaning and oiling the weapons they had set out last night. Dean did have a point. They had been so busy lately that they didn’t do much more than rush through getting each other off so they could collapse into bed and exhausted rest as soon as possible.

“Well it’s true!” Was all Dean could offer. He rubs the back of his head, only a little embarrassed about the way he blurted it. Overall, Dean wasn’t really shy about sex—especially sex with Sam because it was fucking hot and he wasn’t ashamed of it.

“You and Sam copulated just last night.” Castiel offers, confused. “And this morning.”

“Oh. My. God. How do you know that?” Sam asks, mortified. Yes, he realized that there would be no such things as secrets or privacy with Cas, but he wasn’t ready for this conversation, damn it! 

“It’s sex, Cas. Copulation is the biggest turn-off word ever.” Dean interjects. “Besides. I mean, yeah, we had sex yesterday, but not near enough to make up for the past week. I’ve got needs Cas. I’m a young, hot gu-”

“Shut up about sex! Tell us about the hunt!” Sam interrupts desperately. He turns to Dean, his expression tired and a little regretful. “Dean. People are dying. We can take an extended vacation after this one.”

Dean slumps but looks resigned. “Yeah, I know. So. The deaths? There a pattern?”

Castiel frowns, his brows furrowing in something like concentration and consternation. “I do not see a pattern as of yet. Two adults are dead, but four students from the local high school have also died. I went in there, to the school. That’s where that malicious feeling is heaviest.”

Dean frowns, leaning forward. Sam’s body sags as he picks up the other flashlight and the extra set of batteries, as if he could feel the weight of the deaths on his shoulders. "Kids?” Dean croaks. “No idea what’s happening?” Castiel just shakes his head, his face grim.

Any death was tragic, of course. But kids—children to teens—really bothered Sam and Dean. They just seemed more vulnerable and when they died it seemed that they were robbed of so much life and potential. Maybe Sam and Dean felt more protective of kids than adults and so their loss was felt on a deeper moral level.

“How old? What’s the cause of death?” Sam asks softly.

“Teenagers.” Cas answers gruffly. “So far one adult’s charred remains were found in his house—which was untouched by the flames.”

Dean looks sick. “The kids are dying that way?”

Castiel purses his lips. “No. The other deaths have varied. Hanging. Slit wrists. One fell out of the top story window of his house and broke his neck. One girl was hit by a car. They’re ruling those as suicides. The other adult was stabbed in the abdomen. I’m not sure what authorities are saying about that one.”

Sam frowns. “How do you know it’s not suicides?”

Blue eyes blink slowly. “I do not know. I only looked into the hanging. The boy supposedly hung himself from the rafters in his foyer.”

“What’s so suspicious about that?” Dean asked with a shrug.

“It was a high ceiling. There was no way to get up there. There wasn’t a ladder found at the crime scene. And the boy was restricted to a wheel chair.”

Sam swallows past the lump in his throat and grimaces at the bad taste the hunt was already leaving in his mouth. “And the body that was burnt in a house that didn’t burn? How are they explaining that?”

“To my knowledge the authorities are claiming something called ‘spontaneous combustion’.”

Sam shoots Dean an incredulous look and picks up a shot gun and an oil rag to clean it.

“Spontaneous combustion?” Dean snaps. “Really? Fuckin’ insane.”

Castiel shifted his weight. “I am certain that they are mistaken about the cause of death.”

“Of course they are! It’s amazing what people will cook up to explain away things like this.” Dean agrees.

“Actually.” Sam feels the need to throw in. “Many biologists believe that spontaneous combustion is entirely possible under certain circumstances—“ He is cut off when a pillow is thrown into his back. He shoots a glare at Dean over his shoulder.

“Don’t start, Geek Boy.”

Sam huffs but turned back to the shot gun. “We need to hurry and get packed then. With the pattern so unpredictable, we don’t know when the next death will be.”

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. We’ll get food on the way. Let’s finish here and pack up.” He sighs and sways to his feet from the bed, stretching out sore muscles though the tension was already settled deep in his bones. “Where’s this place anyway? Please don’t tell me it’s another hick town in the Mid West? Don’t know how much more I can take of the backwoods.”

Sam snorts because as much as Dean said he hated them he seemed the most at home in those “hick towns”. Sam himself preferred small towns because Sam always thought he felt loneliness and isolation more profoundly in heavily populated cities.

“Pike Creek, Delaware.”

Before Dean could voice his recognition a loud crash from the table startles them both (though Castiel doesn't even jump, the bastard). Sam had dropped the shotgun, which had hit the edge of the table before clattering to the floor. The oil rag had fluttered to rest on top of Sam’s bare foot.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean couldn’t stop himself from barking out. “You could have killed yourself if it was loaded!”

Sam doesn’t flinch at Dean’s reprimand, or jump on the defensive. Sam hates being told what to do or chastised for a way he did things. So when Sam doesn’t even turn around to face Dean or immediately snap back, Dean frowns. Castiel cocks his head thoughtfully, also seeing Sam’s unusual behavioral pattern.

“W-we…” Sam starts and stops and his hands clench at his sides. He turns and faces them but fails to meet their eyes. “I-I.” He swallows and stalks to the dresser and snatches his clothes. His face is pale but otherwise unreadable, like even Sam doesn’t know what to think. “I’m going to take a shower now.”

He rushes past the angel and his brother and closes the bathroom door so quietly behind him that they can all hear the lock click in place.

Dean’s eyes are wide when he turns his head away from where Sam disappeared into the bathroom and stares at Cas. “What the hell?”

Castiel takes an uncertain step towards the bathroom and frowns and Dean interprets that as worried. “Sam seems… disconcerted.” He turns to Dean, eyes snapping like lightening. The angel had only sensed vague confusion and a notion of panic from the youngest Winchester. He was concerned and turned to Dean for an answer.

Dean shrugs, forgetting to be defensive in his confusion. “I don’t know. I mean. We went to Pike Creek once on a hunt. Sam was in high school then. I don’t know. Sam and Dad fought really bad back then, but it seemed they fought all the time after that, right until Sam left for Stanford.” Dean sighs helplessly and goes to the bathroom door and knocks, putting his ear to the door to hear the shower running. He thinks about trying to pick the door but decides that he doesn’t want to overreact.

“Sammy. You OK?” Dean asks. When Sam didn’t answer Dean practically shouts to be heard over the running water.

"I’m fine.” Sam calls but his voice has a thin quality to it that makes Dean frown. “You know. Obviously we didn’t get whatever it was the first time around.”

Sam remembers that things were stressful with Dad in Pike Creek last time, and Sam might not have happy memories. Also, it was frustrating to realize that they might not have taken care of a hunt properly and now people are dying because of their mistakes. Sam had always felt things on a deeper level than Dean, taken on blame that never belonged to him, so Dean could accept that Sam was acting this way because he was upset and felt guilty. Deciding to try and lighten the mood, Dean leers at the door.

“Y’know, baby. We could go faster if we shower together.”

“Get us packed, Dean.” It was a deadpanned dismissal if Dean’s ever heard one. 

Dean frowns. Sam never turns down shower sex (and who would, really?). And he never let one of Dean’s pet names go without the cursory ‘Don’t call me that, Dean’ which really meant he liked it. Dean’s only slightly annoyed but Cas is still here and maybe Sam just needs some space to deal with his guilt. It wasn’t unheard of although Sam did usually tend to prefer physical contact to drag him out of his headspace.

“What is wrong with Sam? He is upset.” Cas observes. It’s his job to keep the Winchesters protected physically and to keep them out of the clutches of Hell. However, about four months into his protection detail, Castiel had discovered that sometimes he needed to protect the hearts and minds of the brothers as well. Sam had told him it was because Castiel saw them as friends.

Dean shrugs and walks over to the table to finish up the weapons and pack them. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because we obviously didn’t finish the hunt the first time? He probably blames himself for these recent deaths.” Dean decides to leave out the part where he was also blaming himself. If kids had died because they had been careless… Dean takes Castiel’s interested stare as cue to continue.

“Well. There were fires in Pike Creek. Dad went thinking it might have been Azazel, the demon that killed Mom—or well, maybe Dad knew back then that it was probably a demon of some kind, but we didn’t know until the shit hit the fan a year and a half ago.” Dean explain.

“So we got there and it wasn’t the demon. It wasn’t the same MO. People were found in the houses or in the woods burned to a crisp but the surrounding area untouched by these fires.”

Cas nods. “Like the adult this time around.”

“Right. But the other deaths? The stabbing and the supposed suicides? That’s new.”

“What did they say about the burnt bodies last time?”

Dean smirks. “Definitely not spontaneous combustion, though the theory back then wasn’t much better. The best they had was that someone was burning the bodies somewhere else and dropping the remains in the woods or in their houses.” Dean loads the weapons in the duffle to dump in the trunk later and moves to set aside new clothes and to pack his and Sam’s bags.

“What was it?”

“It was a who not a what, but he was using something supernatural.” Dean sats with a frown. “Apparently, there was this psycho teacher several years back—colonial times, I think. She burned the school--well, it doubled as a church back then--with the kids in it. The town was small back then, it was a massacre. Anyway, her body was burned so we couldn’t salt and burn her. But the townspeople made her casket out of the burnt bricks of the school. Her spirit must have attached itself to them. There was this one guy, into black magic and stuff. He dug up the grave and stole one of the bricks. Apparently, it had the power to incinerate anything it touched. He must have cast some spell in order to touch it without being burnt himself. Maybe he’s the one that attached her spirit to thing. So he was going around town burning people he had a beef with. No kids were killed back then.”

“It sounds like someone else has gotten their hands on one of these bricks.”

Dean snorts. “It’s what it sounds like but it’s gonna be hard to be sure, man. We dug up every single one of those damn things and dumped them in the bottom of the nearest lake. God, that job was awful. And smelly.” Dean’s brow wrinkled. 

“And Sammy was being a teenage drama queen and he wasn’t there to help. Some school project or whatever.” There was no real bite in the words, though Dean would always look back at those last years before Stanford with Sam and Dad fighting all the time with weariness. 

He only got really bitter whenever he thought of the “Stanford Years” too much. It bothered Dean how easily Sam could have left his family, left him, and not even contact them. Dean understood, kind of, why Sam wouldn’t contact Dad. But Dean had snapped out of his stupor and chased Sam down the street with his car on That Night. 

He had tried to talk Sam out of it and when his efforts were met with silence he had driven Sam to the bus station. Then Dean had called repeatedly the first week to make sure Sam got to Stanford. Sam wouldn’t answer the phone but he would answer texts. And then he didn’t even answer those after a few weeks in his new life in California.

Sam’s leaving was a betrayal to their family. Sam’s bid for “normal” was really him taking all the years Dean had sacrificed everything for his brother and throwing it in Dean’s face. And Sam hadn’t even apologized. Sam’s here now and so Dean tries not to really think of the past. Sam’s here now and promises that he won’t leave Dean but Dean can’t help but doubt him because Sam never apologized for leaving, for wanting “normal” (and, God, that word grated like sandpaper on his skin). Obviously, Sam still wants those things. If his little brother left before, what’s to stop him from leaving again? Though this time they were lovers instead of just brothers, but Dean tries not to think about that because it just meant it would hurt Dean all the more when it happened. 

Dean shakes his head, trying to ward off his doubts and lingering pain of betrayal. He sets all of the packed gear on the table and chair and shrugs his soldiers at Castiel. “Anyway. Like I said, those other deaths didn’t happen last time. And yeah, that burnt body seems suspicious, but it doesn’t add up. Can’t say it’s related yet.”

Castiel purses his lips, nods and looks so unsettled for an angel that Dean feels compelled to reassure them both. “I’m sure Sammy and his geeky little head will have it figured out before someone else dies.” Sam was the best he’d seen with research, even outpacing Dad’s ability to track demons in the past year. Dean knew that with Cas the three of them were an incredibly efficient hunting team, sometimes blowing through cases in half the time it would have taken them two years ago.

Castiel did not voice the concern that was shadowing his mind. Sam’s emotions were a new mix—panic, fear, confusion, and doubt. Sam felt all of these things at some point during a hard hunt, but almost never at the same time and never before the hunt. Castiel contemplated going in the bathroom and confronting his charge, or at least telling Dean his concern but decides that he would wait and talk to Sam later after he gathers more information.

Inside the bathroom, Sam stands tall and still underneath the lukewarm spray and wishes.

****

“You’re doing it wrong.” Ellen snaps at John, only sparing him a glance as she flips the stools and chairs off the bars and tables. “I think I know—“

“Hey, Mom!” Jo calls as she bursts into the Roadhouse. 

“Hey Joanna.” Ellen grunts and Jo raises her brows and looks to John who was scowling at her mother with glasses in his hands. 

“Right. I’m just gonna go… talk to Ash.” She mutters and eases in the back where she peeks into Ash’s open door. 

“They flirting again?” Ash asks without looking up from his computer. Ash had felt mildly protective of Ellen when John first arrived, but as soon as he saw the rampant sexual tension between the two he had backed off, not wanting to get in the middle of that. Though it was fun to watch from afar.

Jo nods miserably. 

“It's creepy as hell.” 

After the car crash John was volleyed from the Singer house to the Roadhouse because he was whiny and bullheaded and restless. John had gotten on Bobby's nerves, and Bobby's on his, and the bickering had gotten so violent that one day Sam and Dean had walked into Bobby's house to see the two men waving shot guns at each other. After that, a move was really just a matter of getting packed and convincing John that he wouldn't be a burden on Ellen. John had been so ill and troublesome at first because he couldn’t stand being out of the hunting game or having his sons out there alone looking for Azazel. 

Now that all of it was over it was easier for him to accept his new limitations and settle down at the Roadhouse. Jo didn’t mind having John Winchester around. His fame as a hunter actually attracted patrons. He picked up arms trafficking after Caleb was killed by the demon Meg and now provided hunters with specialized materials and weapons. That also attracted a lot of business to the Roadhouse. 

The flirting with Mom didn’t really bother Jo—besides the fact that it was creepy. The bickering had first started because Mom still blamed John for Dad’s death and because John refused to be bossed around. The heat from their arguing seemed to have melted the ice between them. John never asked for forgiveness and Mom never asked for an apology or details of the hunt that killed Dad. But somehow their bickering had less bite and more flirtation. Jo didn’t really mind it. 

She harbored no bitterness towards John and his presence redirected Mom’s nagging to someone else besides Jo. John’s presence was a good thing because now Jo was running her own bar without her mother’s constant managerial “advice”. She sends a smile at Ash and nods towards his computer. 

“What are you working on now?” In the main part, John is still shooting death over his shoulder at the bar’s matron. “I think I know how to stack the damn glasses, Ellen.” “Obviously you don’t. The way you’re going you’re not gonna to fit half of them back there.” John slams two glasses down on the bar, gritting his teeth. “You do it then if you know so much.” “And let you keep freeloading? You gotta earn your keep around here. This ain’t no halfway house.” “You don’t make the boys work! And I earn my keep!” “The boys help out with repairs when they’re here. Besides, they need time to rest.” Ellen corrects. “You sleep all day and play with guns every once in a while!” John’s business brought a lot of customers and profits to the Roadhouse, and while Ellen was thankful for it she was never going to admit that part to John. “You know my weapon business has expanded your business!” “Yes, it has, and now we need even more help and I can’t afford to hire anyone so you get to do it and I want you to do it right!” “And there’s nothing wrong with how I’m stacking the damn glasses!” “Sure there is.” Ellen says as she puts the last chair down. 

“So re-do it. And when you’re done do the dishes from last night.” John groans. “Are you kidding me? What did I do to piss you off this time?” Ellen quirks her lips and shifts her weight, bringing up a hand to her hip, the movement causing her breasts to slip further out of the stretched out black tank top she was wearing beneath her jacket. 

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

John stares at her a beat before breaking into a smug smirk very similar to the rakish and charming one his eldest son utilizes. 

"C’mon, Elle. You know you love havin’ me around to feed the sexual tension.” She was hot, in an ornery redneck housewife sort of way, and John wouldn’t be a man if he wasn’t attracted to her. 

However, while things had cooled between them, they hadn’t resolved the veil surrounding her husband’s death. And John didn’t want to rehash the past with her. Besides, while John’s had his one-night stands (Dean picked up that habit from him), John realizes on some level he had never reconciled with Mary’s death. He had only repressed it and now that the Yellow-Eyed son of a bitch was gone and his sons were safe with each other and their guardian angel, now that he didn’t have to worry all the time, John misses Mary more than he had in the days and months right after her death and he just wasn't ready--would probably never be ready--to really move on. 

Sam and Dean tease him endlessly about Ellen, however. Dean has a habit of asking when the wedding is whenever he calls John and Sam promises that they would be happy to chip in for the honeymoon and get Cas to teleport them so they wouldn’t have to spend the money on airfare. 

Ellen rolls her eyes and turns so the smug bastard couldn’t see her smile. “You wish, Jackass. And don’t call me that.”

John laughs, makes a half-hearted attempt to rearrange the glasses. “Short on comebacks today. Maybe I’m finally getting to you?”

“Maybe you need to shut your mouth and do your job.” Ellen bites back.

“Why can’t you do the dishes?” John doesn't whine. 

“Because I gotta check the books and do inventory, which is on the computer. Have your computer skills improved? Cause I got a busted one in the dumpster that says otherwise.”

John’s scowl blackens and he turns to finish the glasses. Ellen grins at the back of his head, relishing in yet another victory. John grumbles, wincing already at the prospect of dirty dishes. Ellen has a quip about him pruning his delicate hands on the tip of her tongue when John's cell phone starts to ring shrilly from one of the tables. John grunts in dread at moving and Ellen moves to get it for him but John petulantly waves her off. 

“I got it.” He says, already moving, his shoulders dipping drastically as he limps from behind the bar. “Probably just the boys.”

Ellen nods, watching as John struggles on his mangled leg. Though the angel Castiel now protected the steps of the younger Winchesters, he was too late to save John from his fate. John’s legs were mangled in the car crash. The right knee had wrenched, snapping all the ligaments. They had reconstructed the ligaments but there was no way John could do more than walk on it ever again. His right femur had suffered a break and a blood clot post-surgery, which in turn caused nerve and tissue damage. It was so bad that the doctors had wanted to amputate but John had refused, thinking that he could somehow overcome it, needing to overcome it because the demon was still out there and his boys needed him. There was some nerve damage in his left hip and lower back so that he often experienced the “dead leg” sensation that alternated with painful spasms. His right leg was almost completely useless and his left side its bad days. 

John really couldn’t walk any distance, and most days he should be restricted to a wheelchair. However, John was a stubborn son of a bitch and stuck to the cane no matter how much pain he was in, which was why he was always so damned grouchy. John had been more stubborn and bitter about the injury when Azazel was still alive. Now it frustrated him most days but he was learning to live with it. The arms dealing for hunters helped him out, made him feel useful. And it felt good to be home base for his boys, like he was making up for all the years he had robbed from them. As a result his relationship with Sammy was totally renewed. Without the hunt and forced to be still and stable John seemed to have rediscovered how to be a father. Dean and especially Sam now turned to John for advice, for help, and just to talk in a way that neither had done since they were small children. The injury was the bane of his existence, but it was also his saving grace.

Mostly he was just grateful. After all, while he had lain mangled and unconscious in the crushed Impala, trapped in by the fire started by the eighteen-wheeler, his baby boys had laid mangled and dead. Castiel had appeared and raised his two sons from the dead, leaving behind a hand print on Dean’s shoulder and a hand print on Sam’s back. Castiel had only been given the power to raise the two Winchesters from the dead and pull the three of them from the wreckage in time for the paramedics. Dean had remained in a long coma, Sam in a medically induced coma while they sewed up his chest and fought bleeds and infections. John had lain awake, practically paralyzed, and utterly helpless. 

Ellen made her way to the bar, pulling out her laptop and opening up the books, keeping half an ear on John’s conversation. It was a shame that a hunter like John Winchester was out of the game. However, hunting wasn’t everything and a part of Ellen was relieved that John had been forced out of the life. The pain was excruciating some days and Ellen didn’t wish that on him, but she had never seen John so peaceful before. She never regretted inviting him to stay at the Roadhouse, though everything in her at the time had screamed against it. No matter what had happened on that hunt all those years ago, John hadn’t wanted Bill to die, and Bill would have been upset with her for taking out her grief on John, especially when he was down after the crash.

John answers gruffly. “Yeah?” The sound of his oldest son’s laughter was a relief. He hadn’t heard from his boys in almost two weeks. It was nothing like the month gaps of radio silence that used to be between them. Two weeks tended to be the longest the boys didn’t call, and it usually meant that they were bogged down with hunts and exhausted.

“Gee, Dad. Don’t sound so happy to talk to me.”

John rolls his eyes, fighting a smile. “I’m going to get enough of you in a few days anyway.”

“Yeah. About that.” Dean sighs and John picks up the tension in his voice. “Cas got us a pretty urgent hunt. Something crazy is going down in Pike Creek, Delaware.”

John frowns, easing himself down in a chair, grunting at the pain that shoots up and burns his body. And he was actually disappointed that his boys weren’t coming, he had been looking forward to seeing them. “Pike Creek?”

“Yeah. We’ve been there before, remember the—“

“Fires.” John nods though Dean couldn’t see him. “There more fires?”

Dean was silent for a moment. “There’s been one fire like the one from last time. There’s other deaths now. Hanging. Slit wrists. Stabbing. We don’t really have a pattern right now but there’s been six deaths already. Four of them were high school kids, Dad.”

John closes his eyes, bringing a hand up to rub his forehead. “Jesus.”

“…Yeah.” Dean agrees softly. There was a long pause and John could pick up some murmuring in the background.

“That angel of yours with you?”

“Cas, Dad.” Dean corrected automatically. “Yeah. He’s riding in the backseat.” John could hear his grin. “He’s such a backseat driver, too.”

John hears a deep voice but couldn’t make out the words. “I know I’m the one driving. That’s not what I mean, Cas.” Was Dean’s overly patient response.

John smiles a little at hearing the exasperation toward the angel. John could have reacted like Dean when he first met Castiel. He could have moaned about how if angels and God existed then how could they have allowed Mary and Jess die horrible deaths. He could have railed about how angels and God had allowed a demon to play sick games with Sammy and the other children. He could have chosen to be angry and sarcastic, he had wanted to, but he didn’t. In the end Castiel, God, had chosen to interfere and save his babies’ lives. Not only that, but Castiel was here to prevent the Winchesters from becoming the playthings of Hell.

John could admit to himself that sometimes he felt threatened by Cas, like the angel was taking his place as protector, caregiver, partner, father. John had reneged on his fatherly duty for over twenty years, so if that was the case then he really had no right to reclaim his place when Cas was doing such a better job. All he could do was be patient and be there for his boys in all the ways he could.

“Dean.” John says to remind his eldest that he was on the phone.

“Right. So. We’re calling cause we obviously can’t use fake aliases. We were there for a couple of months, people will remember us. Especially Sam.”

John frowns. “Sam?”

“Yeah. One of the two adults killed was the guidance counselor at the school. She was the one that was burned, actually. Since four kids were killed we decided that if we could get Sam in as the new guidance counselor we could keep an eye on pretty much all the students. Students have been the main victims, so whatever this thing is might be in the school.”

John nods. “Good idea. Yeah. I’ll get Ash to whip up a resume and make sure it gets noticed. Should be set up by the time you get there. What else?”

“Well.” Dean drawls out, a bit rueful. “My, uh, record.”

John rolls his eyes, remembering what the boys told him of that encounter with the shape shifter in St. Louis. Shape shifters were easy enough to kill but a bitch to catch. Also, Dean’s record as serial killer made it hard for them to work closely with the police. Ash had been meaning to fix that.

“We’re gonna be using our real names.” Dean reminds and rushes on. “And the other adult killed was the local sheriff. The deputy’s been temporarily promoted, but they’re still looking for a new sheriff to come to town.”

John distinctly hears Sam’s derisive snort from the other end and couldn’t help but smile. Still, having to use real names was a pain—and painfully expensive since they couldn’t use credit fraud. 

“Well, I’ll see what Ash can do.”

“I just don’t want a background check to bite us in the ass. Also, I kinda need sheriff credentials. You know, other than the fact that I look fine in uniform—Ow! Sammy!”

John chuckles. “Well, boys. I’ll see what I can do.”

“What Ash can do. You’re crap with computers, Dad.”

John scowls, shooting a dark look at Ellen as if the last comment was her fault. “Like you’re any better.” 

“Hey. Sammy told me to say that. Don’t take it out on me.” John rolls his eyes. 

“If Sam’s so smart then have him do it.” 

Dean snorts. “Little bitch is too scared that he’ll mess up and alert the Feds.” He says like it wasn’t one of the worst possible things that could ever happen. 

John couldn’t hear words but he could hear the sarcasm just oozing in his youngest son’s voice as he snarks back at Dean. “Yeah, yeah. But you better have a backup plan, Dean. Not sure if Ash can swing erasing criminal records without red flags popping up.” 

“Yeah, whatever. There’s this youth center that three of the kids went to. But since it’s mostly kids that are being killed, me and Sam have a feeling that sheriff might’ve been on to something and got killed for it. Guidance counselor, too.” 

John nods. “Fair guess. Be careful, both of you boys, don’t go off half cocked. I’ll look and see if there are any omens in the area.” And then a thought occurs to him. “I’ll see if I can get in touch with Nathan. Maybe he’ll find you boys a house or apartment. Can’t work as a sheriff and counselor out of a motel room.” 

“Who?” Dean asks. 

“Nathan Schneider. Old Marine buddy of mine? He was there that time we were hunting in Pike Creek. Sammy’s gym coach. Anyway, he’s still at that school Sam went to. Just a reminder, he doesn’t know anything about what we do and what we hunt, so keep things quiet, but he’s a reliable guy, a good guy. Maybe he could help get you boys set up with some living arrangements. Maybe we can get him to do a recommendation for both your cover jobs. Last time I checked, that little Marine grunt turned into an upstanding, fine member of the community.” 

“Sounds good.” Dean agrees, sounding distracted. Either Dean’s short attention span was kicking in or he was actually interested in whatever debate Sam and Castiel were engaged in. It was most likely the former. 

“Make sure you check in.” 

“OK, Dad, but we have a handy guardian angel now.” 

“Humor me, Dean.” John sighs. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean repeats, but sounds more serious. 

“Be careful.” And then, because it was weird for him but he wanted to do it all the same, he adds, “tell Sam I said hey.” 

Dean was silent for a moment. “Sure.” 

He seems surprised, but pleased with the request still unused to the renewed bond between John and Sam.

“Hey Dad-” And John could picture the leer forming on his eldest son’s lips. “If you and Ellen actually decide to skip on the foreplay, don’t forget protection—“ 

This time John distinctly hears the slap to the back of Dean’s head and Sam’s startled “gross, Dean!” 

“Right.” Dean sounds appropriately cowed by his brother’s reprimand. John couldn’t help but laugh. Both of his boys were proud and fiercely independent. Sam seemed to be the only one that could reprimand Dean and get away with it. Sam was also the only one that could make Dean shy or rueful. Really, Sam was the only one that was Dean’s everything so it wasn’t a surprise Sam held so much power and influence over his big brother. 

“Call you later.” Dean promises and hangs up. John closes his phone, chuckling fondly as he pictures his boys having a slap fight I the front seat, shooting childish insults back and forth while an angel of the Lord looks on curiously from the backseat. 

“John?” Ellen calls as she picks up the phone to call in more orders. “Dishes. Now.” 

John curses all the way to the kitchen and vows to break at least two plates, just for the hell of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ* This chapter is still Insertcode11's original work.

Pike Creek, October 2000

Sam’s sneakers were old and thinning and it made him feel brittle all over. Like his skin was made of the stuff the blue little robin’s eggs were made of that Dean showed Sam when he Sam was nine. Dean had found the nest in the back corner of Bobby’s scrap yard in the shell of an old Ford pickup. Back then the scrap yard had been one big adventure—a separate world with endless discoveries and possibilities. Dean and Sam had fingered the small eggs and thought that they could feel the fluttering of little babies inside. Though they heard the mother chirping her warnings in the metal jungle somewhere around them they couldn’t leave the eggs alone because by the time Sam was nine all he and his family saw and knew were dark and dead things and the little blue eggs were so alive they weren’t even born yet. 

When Dad came outside they were both laughing hard over nothing funny at all because those eggs were so different and tiny and fragile but alive and strong and safe in their nest. Sam remembered looking up at Dad and squinting because the sun was right behind his head. But Dad had a really sad look on his face.

“Boys.” He said and his voice sounded heavier than the Colt pistol Dad had put in his hand a couple of weeks ago. “Boys you can’t just play with a bird’s eggs.”

Sam’s smile never faltered. “But they’re…nice!” Because Dean said boys didn’t say “pretty”.

“We think we can feel the chicks!” Dean chipped in.

Dad never smiled, just carefully removed the eggs from their hands and put them back in the nest that they had so carefully pulled from the metal husk with every intention of putting it back. Dad held the nest in his hands, held it above them, out of reach. “When the eggs are touched by humans, the parents don’t come back to it.”

Sam stared up at their Dad in the sun and didn’t understand. He felt Dean’s heavy hand on his shoulder and he still didn’t understand.

“The eggs need their mama to hatch. But she won’t return after they’ve been handled by something else.” Dad explained softly with this tender look that Sam loved but didn’t see very often on his father’s face.

Sam never saw what Dad did with the nest and the eggs. He had ran off, tears and the sun in his eyes. He wrapped himself around Bobby’s old dog in the library the rest of the afternoon, sick at the idea of going outside. He had been sullen, crying off and on and not really having a good idea why, except that he had possibly killed baby birds before they had a chance to be born. It hadn’t been just that, though his nine year old vocabulary could hardly tackle the deeper, darker dread he had felt on that day. Dean and Dad must have felt it, too, because Dad let Sam cry when he wanted that day though he had been telling Sam “big boys don’t cry” since Sam was six (when a bully in a grade above Sam had pushed him down and he had come home crying Dad said “big boys don’t cry, they stand up for themselves” but Dean had walked Sam into his class the next day and had broken the bully’s nose). That night, Dean had hugged Sam tight and held him close in bed and that had made Sam feel a little better because he somehow knew he would die too if Dean left and never came back. 

Sam couldn’t look at his hands for days afterwards because those eggs were dead things too as soon as he touched them. Sam thought about the nest and how he had thought it was a safe place when really it became a grave. He thought about his hands touching the grave and the dead things inside and wondered if he would ever touch anything alive.

It was a pretty dumbass thing to be thinking about now, couple of years later and thousands of miles between him and that nest. But Sam’s shoes were thin and his feet were October cold and he couldn’t help but think his skin might be as thin as those robin eggs.

“Gotta have thick skin, Sam, hunting’s tough, you can’t be sobbing over every little thing,”

Dad’s voice ricochets condescendingly in his head, but Sam feels far from thick. Everything gets to him recently. Dad pretty much only had to be breathing wrong for him to get on Sam’s nerves. And for some reason he keeps on taking Dean’s normal brotherly jibes like “geek”, “girl”, and “emo-punk” as personal insults when he normally understands that Dean didn’t mean them like that and they were supposed to be affectionate, but Sam couldn’t help it when the words cut him.

And the hunting and the constant moving acted like sandpaper, wearing him down further. Pike Creek was the fourth school for Sam this year and his back still ached from where the poltergeist from last week had blown him into a heavy wooden wardrobe.

And maybe he feels especially thinned out today because this might be it. There were fires everywhere in this town and this could be it. 

A heavy hand on his shoulder seems to weigh him back into himself. “Those are your pensive shoulders.” Dean’s voice laughs, sending a tendril of reassuring warmth through Sam’s chest and an extra coating to his thin skin just before big brother fills Sam’s vision. Dean’s brow wrinkles in concentration as he put his other hand on Sam’s other shoulder and presses, tip of his tongue poking from his mouth and curling around his upper lip as he studies Sam. “Nah, they’re slightly off for your pensive shoulders. These are definitely your emo shoulders.”

Sam knew he should probably glare and shrug away from Dean’s hold because he’s so tired of Dean calling him “emo” and always implying that Sam’s in a selfish, brooding mood. But Sam can’t bring himself to even feel angry or hurt because he sees his own haunted look reflected in Dean’s eyes.

“You know I’m sixteen, right? I can walk into school by myself.” He says instead. Their place is on a bus route, but Dean had insisted that he drive Sam to school on his first day, saying “I always drive you to school on your first day, it’s tradition, you can take the bus tomorrow”. 

The statement was close enough to true, except that Dean hadn’t driven him to the past two schools, but that was because Dean’s been busy with work or was already off on the hunt with Dad. Sam (and Dean, for that matter) never quite operated on the same level as kids their age. Sam didn’t get embarrassed if Dean or Dad drove or walked him to school (though, Dad hasn’t done that since Sam was eleven) and in fact always felt reassured. After all, Sam was never put in kindergarten and he grew up in an air tight bubble in the shape of his family for six years with minimum contact with crowds and other human beings. When Sam had first stepped into school—despite the exciting prospect of books, learning, newness—he had felt alienated from his family, cut off from a lifeline, like floating out in the nothingness of an ocean. It had been loud, pushy, confusing, DEAN! The first day of first grade the school had called Dad to pick him up because Sam had panicked so hard he had thrown up. Dean had somehow found out though he had been in fifth grade at the time. He had skipped out on the rest of his classes and met Sam and Dad at the door to the nurse’s office, eyes challenging the nurse and Dad to say anything while Dean wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and said, “I know it’s scary, Sammy, but it’s not too bad after awhile. Besides, I’m not too far away, right?”

Dean doesn’t even smile at Sam’s half-hearted and gauzy barb, just studies him searchingly and Sam’s surprised to realize there have been changes to Dean’s face. He just seems older, there are deeper lines around his eyes. He hasn’t shaved since yesterday morning so he has a stubbly shadow on his cheeks and chin. Dean’s eyes are lighter than Sam remembers, bottle green but when they hit the sunlight they almost look hazel like Sam’s. There’s a scab about the size of half of Sam’s pink near Dean’s left ear and for the life of him Sam can’t remember Dean ever getting it. Maybe the last hunt, or he got scratched up doing one of the odd jobs he takes for food money. And that’s when Sam realizes that all three of them had been so busy with hunts lately—and you can’t really see more than the whites of eyes, flash of teeth, and glint of gunmetal through the dark and the smoke on a hunt—and Sam’s been so busy going to four schools in one year that Dean had somehow grown and changed and Sam had missed it. He wonders if something about him has changed as well because Dean’s looking so hard at him, eyes roving over his face slow and sure.

“Sammy.” Dean says and Sam belatedly thinks he should be embarrassed because from the outside it looks like there are these two guys staring soulfully into each other’s eyes on the steps of the high school but he can’t bring himself to care. Dean swallows and grips Sam’s shoulders tighter. 

“Sammy. This could be it.” And Sam was doing just fine until someone else voice his thoughts out loud and now he’s got this tight, cloying feeling in his throat and stomach like he’s choking on acrid smoke (the smoke that swallowed up their house and Mom, the smoke that Sam doesn’t remember but swears he smells or tastes sometimes, especially today when this could be it). 

“But it might not be it.” Dean reasons, measuring his words just as carefully as his fingers measure the tension in Sam’s shoulders. “We don’t know. Until we do…I know it’s hard. Hell, I feel like I can’t be still, but… try to focus on other things. School. Research. Training. If you think about it too much you’ll go crazy.”

Sam nods because he understands Dean, he does, “but.” Sam licks his lips and tries swallowing but that only made him feel sick to his stomach. “But, it’s taken so much from us already. We’re not even sure what it is, how to—I-I can’t help but think—“

Dean shakes Sam abruptly, causing Sam’s head to loll. “I know. I know it’s fuckin terrifying. I can’t—“ He cuts himself, seeming to remind himself that he is supposed to be comforting Sam, not causing both of their panicking to escalate. 

“Look. If this is it, we’ve been waiting for years for this. We’re ready. Nothing is going to happen to us. I won’t let anything happen to us.”

Sam’s only mildly embarrassed that he latches onto Dean’s words like he was still nine years old and afraid of robin’s nest-graves and committing baby bird abortion. He nods at Dean, wondering why he’s able to believe Dean so fully whenever rationally he knows that Dean can’t promise that, that Dean’s only human, but no matter how hard he prods at reason and fact he can’t seem to dim the heroic silhouette Dean cuts in his mind, can’t seem to unbelieve in Dean.

“Do you understand me, Sammy? Do you hear me?”

“Yeah.” Sam whispers. “I hear you.” Because he does understand, because he believes in Dean’s promise. 

Dean’s smile is more in the squint of his eyes than in the width of his lips and Sam knows that thatsmile is for him. “Alright.” Dean says and claps Sam on the shoulder twice. “Got your transfer papers?”

Sam rolls his eyes and fights a smile. “Yes.”

“Books?”

“I’ll get them inside.”

“Keys? Lunch?”

“Yeah everything’s packed; I double checked, mother-hen!” Sam grins, shoving Dean playfully away by his collarbone.

“Condoms?”

“Dean! That’s gross!”

“What? Condoms are always necessary, remember? Or do I have to give you the talk again? And we’ve been busy lately. I know you haven’t gotten the chance to—“

Sam makes gagging sounds, nose wrinkling in disgust. “I can’t believe you know that!”

“OK, but you’re gonna regret not packing them. You’ll be in the heat of the moment and she’ll leave you hangin’ if you don’t got some rubber. Remember what I said? Don’t be a loner, cover your boner?”

Sam groans, dragging his palm down his face and warily looking from side to side to make sure no one else heard his big brother’s lameness. “Oh my God, Dean. Shut up.” Sam murmurs, trying to swallow back the honest to God giggle that's threatening to bubble to the surface.

“Sex is cleaner with a packaged wiener.” Dean continues to chime cheerfully, a gleam in his eye and a knowing smirk as he watches Sam’s “bitchface” slowly melt into laughter.

“Dean, please.”

“Not until you tell me you have them!” Dean says as he wraps an arm around Sam’s neck and bends him over to rasp his knuckles over Sam’s scalp. “You can’t stay a virgin forever, Sammy! You’re a reasonably attractive guy and people are going to start thinking you’re deficient if you don’t pop your cherry—or, you know, whatever—and I can’t have you ruin my reputation my proxy. It won’t be funny with a coatless dummy!” Dean sing-songs.

“Do you sit at home by yourself and think these up?” Sam jibes but it’s lost in his struggle to get out of Dean’s grasp and to hide his mortified blush at the same time.

“Beats your favorite past time which is writing emo poems.”

“I don’t write any poems!” Sam shoots back, finally getting out of Dean’s grasp by pinching him in the tender spot on his right side. Sam steps back, out of reach of Dean’s powerful arms, and huffs to catch his breath.

But Dean’s got his hands in his pockets, is rocking back on his heels, and is doing that thing he does when he somehow laughs with his eyes and face without even opening his mouth or cracking a smile. And then Dean says in the most serious, rebuking voice he can manage, “if you’re not going to sack it, go home and whack it.”

Sam laughs then, so suddenly that he throws his head back and the morning sun warms his face. 

Dean also laughs, and they’re bumping each other’s shoulders and practically giggling like they did when they were ten and six and Dean regaled Sam with all of the brand new fart jokes he heard in his new fifth grade class. “Just answer the question!” Dean gasps out, face straining to be serious.

“Yes! Yes I have them!” Sam finally acquiesces.

“You sure you have the right size—“

“I will shove you down these stairs.” Sam warns, all laughter gone except for the traitorous grin that tugs at the corner of his lips.

Dean nods, laughter still slipping out from between his teeth before the mirth gives way to a stern but haunted look in his bright eyes. “You have weapons on you?”

“Silver and iron knives.”

“Salt?”

“Bag in my backpack.”

Dean smirks and tweaks Sam’s ear, causing Sam to swat at him like he’s an irritating fly. “Don’t you have work to go to?” Sam asks, wrinkling his nose in clear dismissal.

Dean’s eyes widen. “Shit!” He curses and starts pushing Sam towards the entrance. “Go be geeky. Fill your huge head with weird knowledge. Remember we’re meeting one of Dad’s friends this afternoon. You might have to start dinner for us, alright? I should be back by five, though. No extracurricular activities for right now, not until we figure out what’s going on at least, OK?”

Sam did a few extracurricular activities here and there—he’s played soccer a few times, did drama once, and has managed to be on the debate team in two schools. But he hasn’t managed any of that this year because they’ve moved so often.

Sam laughs and pushes Dean off of him via palm to Dean’s forehead. “Get out of here, man, before you make all our man parts shrivel up with your girliness.”

Dean shoots him a look that can only be described as an irritated pout. “Dude, my line.” And then his big brother leers and Sam can see the gears turning, can see either another crack about Sam’s sex life (more importantly, his lack thereof) or some expose on how Dean is God’s gift to women falling behind Dean’s eyes and landing on the tip of his brother’s tongue. Frantic to avoid whatever embarrassing comment—especially since that’s a teacher coming up the stairs—Sam does shove Dean harder and towards the steps. Dean flails a bit for balance but is laughing so hard he kind of fails and stumbles backward a step or two. 

“See ya!” Sam barks out and dives into the entrance, marveling at how Dean was so easily able to turn his mood around in the matter of seconds.

****

In homeroom Sam makes a tentative friend out of the junior class president. The guy is tall and gangly with pale skin that easily flushes red when he laughs, big gray eyes, curly blond hair, and a quirky sense of humor that makes him popular and an easy friend to the entire school it seemed. He sat in the seat next to Sam and gave him a genuine smile.

“Hey, man. Sucks to transfer a couple of months into the school year. I did it my freshman year. My name’s Mac.” Mac’s voice is smooth and a little loud, tones happy and supportive.

Sam gives the boy a wary look. “Sam.” He supplies shortly. He’s not used to people being so friendly and in his space. The past three schools this year have only lasted a week or two at a time—Sam’s gone before he’s even there—and before that was the summer and he realizes just how unaccustomed he is to people right now. Also, while Mac seems reasonably attractive and is apparently popular by the number of people that calls out to him and waves to him from across the room or from the hallway, he also just looks strange. His skin and hair are so pale that he kind of looks like an albino—except Sam has only seen photos and videos of albinos on the Discovery Channel and News (apparently, albino limbs sell for a high price on the black market, Sam’s not sure of the whole story because there’s a few things he can’t take and he turned it off). But Sam has seen ghosts and he decides that Mac’s coloring makes him look ghostly, except his rosy cheeks that say I’m alive.

Mac’s grin turns rueful and he reaches up and runs a hand through his hair in what must be a nervous or embarrassed tick. “Actually, my name’s Mackenzie. It’s such a girl name and I think my parents were expecting a girl and were too lazy to change it. So please call me Mac.”

Sam laughs out loud then, shoulders relaxing. “That’s pretty embarrassing. I won’t tell anyone.” Sam promises and Mac’s grin stretches impossibly wide.

“Let me see your schedule. If you want, I’ll help you find your classes today.”

Sam smiles for real then and lets out a sigh of relief because Mac’s offered help and companionship is just what Sam needs to keep his mind off of this could be it.

“Like I said, I know what it’s like to transfer half way to the middle of the school year. I don’t know why you’re here late or whatever, but I came here in November with Dad’s new job only a week after Mom and Dad’s divorce was finalized. The last thing I wanted to worry about was finding where the damn classrooms were and trying to make friends.” Mac shrugs easily.

Sam tries to keep the smile on his face, but he’s stunned and caught off guard. He had never met anyone as open about their life as Mac. One of the rules of the Winchester family was to tell at least three lies for every truth. It was dangerous if anyone actually knew you for the real you and, as Sam found out over the years, also painful. From Mrs. Milford his third grade teacher telling him to stand in the corner because he insisted that monsters were real to ridicule he sometimes caught for having threadbare, hand me down clothing to jibes about Sam being homeless and unwanted. 

When Sam was in sixth grade Dean had ruffled Sam’s hair and said, “It’s just better to lie to them. It’s not you, Sammy. It’s not us. Normal people are the strange ones.” 

Sam figures that maybe Mac is expecting Sam to open up a little as well, so Sam goes with the a simple, bare story that he can have room to build on later if necessary. “Yeah, me and my brother and my dad just moved here. Dad’s a mechanic and work’s been hard to find but he’s found something here.” With this, Sam doesn’t have to lie too much, and it also implies that they’ve been moving around without good income, which would explain anything from Sam’s lack of school supplies to his shabby clothes.

“So.” Sam continues. “Thanks, you know, for helping me out.”

Mac was in most of Sam’s classes and Sam honestly couldn’t be more okay with that. A lot of the curriculum was repeat from his last school so nothing else but Mac was there to distract him from this could be it, this could be it and God, don’t take Dean and Dad too.

Except April Richardson in sixth period math is pretty distracting. Sam actually meets her along with a few other of Mac’s closer friends during lunch. At first he felt a little out of place. All of the kids were at least middle-class—he could tell by the way they dressed and spoke. But they were genuinely nice though they couldn’t possibly mistake Sam’s one-inch-too-short Salvation Army jeans and Dean’s old black-so-faded-its-brown t-shirt for vintage fashion. And only two of the kids at the table looked at him with pity (which he rewarded by ignoring them) while the rest seemed genuinely interested in getting to know him.

Sometimes, when Sam allows himself to think about it, it frustrates him that he and Dean and Dad were always stuck in such cheap hand-me-down clothing. Sometimes they couldn’t even afford a decent winter coat, and had to layer up with flannel shirts and sweats. He thinks about all the bullies he’s had simply because of his shoddy apparel. He thinks of how Dean, beautiful (Dean is beautiful, and that could be Sam’s hero-worship talking or the line of one-night stands to that supports the notion) and charming, lady-killer Dean is sometimes rebuked by some of the more uppity girls, how they sometimes turned down his advancements, push him away, and immediately run to the bathroom and washed their hands like Dean was a piece of unwanted trash. All because of the clothes they sometimes have to wear. When Sam allows himself to really think about it he knows that they’re so poor, without decent clothes, without a home besides the Impala because of hunting. And while he doesn’t regret hunting because it helps people and saves lives, he just doesn’t understand why they have to do it all the time. 

Dean will deny it now because he’s worked so hard to accept and immerse himself in the hunting life, but when he and Sam were little they used to whisper about after hunting, after moving around endlessly across the country, used to murmur about home, and bedrooms, and pet dogs, and a backyard to build a tree house in. But for a couple of years now Sam’s been afraid to broach the subject of after (after they kill whatever killed Mom) with either Dad or Dean. Sam’s afraid to broach the subject with himself most days, because what if he somehow jinxes it? What if in thinking about after, he makes it to where they never find what killed Mom and keep on hunting forever until they’re torn apart and destroyed by this life?

However, the majority of Mac’s friends seem to ignore Sam’s appearance in favor of getting to know Sam himself, and the one that Sam’s most interested in is April Richardson. She is different from a lot of girls Sam had seen, including the girls he had seen Dean with. Her skin is milky white and her hair is black and a mess of frizzy curls. She has big, dark brown eyes and a small, tip-tilted nose. She had thinner lips than some other girls, but her smile is wide and kind. She’s also not as thin as a lot of Dean’s girlfriends (or, well, girlfriends isn’t exactly the right term because Dean hasn’t dated anyone for longer than two weeks, but whatever) but she has rounded breasts and thicker thighs that looked like they were strong enough to grip his sides and wrap around his back and hold on.

Sam resists the urge to blush at his own thoughts. He’s a male teenager, of course he’s interested in sex, but they’ve been so busy that Sam hasn’t really had a lot of time to think about what he likes, who he wants. He knows that he doesn’t always like the kind of girls that Dean’s in to—thin, busty, ditzy (slutty, but Sam feels bad for thinking that). Sam never feels comfortable around them, they look like they’re always sizing Dean up, trying to decide what they can get out of him—take away from him for themselves. Dean looks at them similarly, looking for release and distraction or other things that Sam doesn’t want to think too closely about because it’s his brother. The point is that Sam doesn’t want that—he feels like he gives too much of himself away as it is to his family and to the hunt. He doesn’t want a quick, take for himself thing with a girl (or with a guy, but Sam squashes that thought because he’s so not ready to fully flesh that out yet). He wants something a little bit deeper, wants to feel important because while he knows that he’s important to Dad and Dean, he can’t help but feelforgotten some days.

He feels a little ashamed because he doesn’t even know April but was already imagining all these things about her. However, Dean had told him (in his half-awkward, half-cocky way that only Dean can pull off) that it was completely normal and in fact if Sam wasn’t getting lewd thoughts about anything on two legs then that’s when they should worry. Dean was right earlier, Sam remains a virgin (Dean brags brazenly to both Dad and Sam that he lost his virginity when he was fourteen—much to Dad’s chagrin and Sam’s mild disgust—but Sam suspects that Dean was really closer to Sam’s age though there’s no specific evidence, Sam just knows sometimes when Dean’s lying), which was…frustrating but alright until now, until he sees April Richardson and at the same time he likes her smile and likes the fact that she might be a bigger English nerd than he is, he can’t get these images out of his head—this want—and he’s nervous and excited and mortified and restless to realize that she’s the one, or Sam hopes that she’ll be the one.

“You thinking about joining any extracurricular activities, Sam?” She asks him suddenly, her smart dark eyes zeroing on him and he’s slightly horrified to realize that all he can think about are the damned condoms Dean made him pack and he actually, honest to God blushes.

“Uhm?” He manages but is disconcerted to find that the sound he makes isn’t, in fact, an intelligible word. 

April raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You know? Sports? Clubs? …Chess?” She says the last one like she’s testing, like even she’s not sure how she feels about it.

Sam blinks and clears his throat. “Oh! Right. Uhm, no. Not right now. My Dad and my brother need help with moving in and around the house while they look for jobs and stuff.” And stuff?! Since when did he have the vocabulary of a ten year old? “Maybe soccer in the spring.”

She nods encouragingly. “Well, I’m part of the drama club. Mac, too. We’re doing Camelot this year.”

Sam perks up at that. “Yeah? You’re going to try to fit the whole thing in one play?”

Mason, one of the ones that had looked at Sam with pity earlier, now regards him with a mock-wary look. “You’ve…read…? I mean, is it a book?”

April rolls her eyes (which are Sam’s sentiments, exactly). “No. Not really. I mean, someone probably tried recording all of the legends and stories down. But, no, no particular person actually wrote a book that started it all.”

“Except that one history book that Ms. White was talking about.” Mac throws in around a mouthful of Mystery Meat that most of the other occupants of the table had diligently avoided except for Sam, who was hungry and had had worse.

And Sam honestly tries to resist because he was aware that it was geeky but he couldn’t help it. “Historia Regum Britanniae, a kind of history book written by Geoffrey of Monmouth in the twelfth century.”

Everyone stares at him for what feels like the entirety of the lunch hour (Sam can hear Dean’s voice in his head, “way to go, Geekboy, you scared away the normals”). Eventually, Mac slaps him on the back and grins. “Dude. You’ve gotta help me with my drama test, right? Ms. White always kicks my ass.”

Mason now looks entertained and not just a little impressed. “It’s weird that you know that. Kinda random, I mean. It just means you’re smarter than me I guess.” He says with this toothy grin. 

He’s got blazing white teeth, a dusting of freckles that reminds Sam of Dean during the summer months, and bright blue eyes. Dark hair cut close to his head, probably around Sam’s height—Sam can’t tell because they’re sitting down—with broad shoulders and biceps that make his shirt stretch. Sam feels a familiar stirring in his gut—quieter than with April, but still there—but he squashes it. He’s not sure how Dad and Dean feel about—and besides, Sam’s not even sure what he feels—whatever, stop thinking, Sam. He rebukes himself, unconsciously crinkling one brow.

“Everyone’s smarter than you.” April banters pleasantly and Mason throws a balled up straw wrapper at her in retaliation.

Sam just shrugs because Arthurian legends could be a handy resource for the supernatural, which is mostly why he read them. Also, it had occupied his time one winter when he and Dean were snowed in for almost a week in North Dakota (and, maybe he just likes reading about myths and legends, it reminds him a little of the tall tales Dean used to tell him before bedtime when Sam was little).

“So, Sam.” April starts after a few more beats of friendly jibes between Mac and Mason. She’s smiling shyly up at him which kind of surprises Sam because she hadn’t seemed that way throughout the entire lunch hour. “You have math next, right? I have it, too. Mac’s not in that class, so do you want towalk with me?”

Sam desperately tries not to blush like a girl (April’s not blushing for crying out loud!) and nods dumbly. “Uhm. S-Sure. Yeah. That’d be awesome.” And Sam’s smile blooms, dimples working full throttle. He’s vaguely aware of Mac and Mason murmuring conspiratorially to each other. 

A minute before the bell rings the whole table gets up to gather their things and throw away the trash. Sam unconsciously offers to take both April’s tray and the other girl sitting at the table (Sam thinks her name might be Elizabeth, but it could also be Marissa).

As he steps away from the trashcan he feels Mac slap him in the shoulder. “Man, you’re way too nice. You some kind of ‘southern gentleman’?” He teases, not unkindly.

Sam shrugs because he hadn’t even thought about it. Dean and Dad were always doing nice stuff for the few women they met—mostly diner waitresses, motel maids, and their witnesses. “You be nice to women, son.” Dad instructed Sam once, but that was more because women were nicer and more likely to open up about any information to men they perceived as good listeners and kindprotectors. “You treat a lady nice, Sammy.” Dean told Sam more than once, but that’s because Dean’s figured out that treating a woman nicer is just a faster way to get in their pants (“well, yeah, but there’s no harm in treating them nice anyway” Dean had responded to Sam’s comment with a carefree shrug). 

“Dude. You’re so in.” Mac whispers and nods his head toward the table where April is still talking to Elizabeth.

“In?” Sam whispers, his eyes widening (because why the hell are they whispering? Sam can barely hear Mac when he’s talking in his normal, booming voice in the loud cafeteria) and Mac grips his shoulder harder.

“Yeah, man. April doesn’t usually give guys the time of day. Her walking with you to class ishuge, man. Don’t blow it!”

“What?!” Sam’s voice strains past the sudden clenching in his throat. Oh, God. He hadn’t even been trying! He likes April, but what if he actually tried flirting and sucked and totally drove her off? He unconsciously reached for the cell in his pocket. He needed Dean!

“Tell her you could fall forever in her eyes. Tell her that her body is so beautiful you want to hold her forever, girls like romantic shit like that. Remember, when all else fails, act like you’re an agent for a modeling company. Girls will throw themselves at you!”

…On second thought, perhaps Dean wouldn’t be that helpful at the moment.

“Man, don’t panic! She can smell panic! Women have like these sensors when it comes to fear!” Mac hisses.

“You’re not making this better!” Sam squeaks back.

“Hey, Sam. Got your stuff?” April greets suddenly, making Sam whirl (not flail) around just in time to see her halt with a bounce in front of Sam, making her breasts…jiggle.

“I-I, uhm.” Sam blinks and takes a deep breath and smiles wide at her. “Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “The math class at my last school was terrible, please tell me this one’s better.”

April led them down the hall as she answered. “If terrible means boring, then sorry to disappoint. I don’t know why I let my mom talk me into this honors class. I’m terrible at math. How about you?”

Hunts were like math problems. There was limited information and you had to use it to come up with a certain answer. So, math didn’t bother him. In fact, it was nice to solve puzzles when lives didn’t depend on it. “I guess I’m OK at it.” He said modestly.

“Huh.” April sighs with mock-rueful shrug and a wily grin. “Guess you’ll have to tutor me.”

He blinks and absurdly (or maybe not so absurdly, given the shy but daring look in April’s expressive eyes) Sam thinks about the condoms in his bag, he thinks about what Dean would say, he thinks that flirting doesn’t seem to be such a big deal after all and all he really has to be is himself (or, well, himself plus about two hundred lies). He doesn’t think this could be it for the next few hours.

By the time last period, gym, came around Sam was immensely thankful for the growth spurt that had hit him last year. While another new school wasn’t the best of experiences, they were better than they used to be. Sam used to be small and a little chubby and people either ignored him or bullied him. It wasn’t a big deal because he could contend with most bullies despite his size, except that he mostly had to rely on his wit and ability to avoid confrontations before they happened in order to deflect too much attention of teachers on himself and consequently his family. Dean helped when he was in the same school as Sam—with his leather jacket, broad shoulder more befitting a man, and cool swagger all Dean had to do was firmly establish that Sam was his little brother and not to be messed with and usually Sam was left alone.

Now he is thin compared to the muscles Dean and his Dad packed but he is tall and people didn’t really give him a hard time anymore except for the occasional jock like at his last school. Dad keeps pressing him to put on more muscle, insisting that Dean is bulkier and thus more stable to handle the heavier artillery in their arsenal like the shotguns. Dean just grins at Sam and says Sam will bulk up once all the food he eats doesn’t go into his “sasquatch” height. Sam’s attendance in the other three schools from August to early October was too brief to make friends, but in just the first day at Pike Creek it seemed as if a lot of people were genuinely interested in befriending him which he didn’t mind so much. Friends at school made the days go by faster, served to distract Sam further from the hunts that Dad and more frequently Dean disappear to (distract Sam from they could be killed, they could be killed and never come back, they might never come back and I’ll be all alone). 

He’s relieved to see that this high school might be easier to adjust to. Unlike Dean who, while smart, thought school was a waste of time Sam honestly enjoyed it. He liked learning things that didn’t revolve around supernatural lore and how to kill the monster of the week (though he did like reading about those things, too), he liked to get lost in the monotony of homework, liked talking to people outside of his family unit, and liked observing other students and teachers—their lives were fascinating and strange.

Sam’s relieved when the last class is P.E. He likes the learning in the classroom, but the tension in his body has continued to coil despite his willful ignorance. He hopes that they’ll run, or play a fast-moving sport like basketball or soccer. However, Mac did not have P.E. with Sam, but was nice enough to drop him off at the wooden double doors that led to the gym.

“Coach Schneider is alright, man, so don’t worry about him. See you tomorrow?” Mac had reassured kindly whilst slapping Sam affectionately on the back for what seemed like the fiftieth time that day.

When Sam gets to the locker room he realizes he wasn’t given clothes or a locker. He looks around but doesn’t see anyone resembling a gym coach and so turns back around, poking his head out the door and into the hallway. A few doors down Sam sees a door labeled “Coach Schneider”. He knocks but no one answers. He’s in too good a mood to really worry about it so he goes back to the locker room and picks a bench and waits for the teacher to show.

Coach Schneider blows in wearing gym shorts and the school t-shirt at almost the exact moment when everyone finishes changing. “Basketball today, go and get the equipment and warm up.” His voice is authoritative but his smile easy enough.

Coach Schneider is a lot taller and younger than Sam’s last two gym coaches—about Dad’s height and maybe even a little broader. He has thick black hair and eyebrows, heavy and dark eyelashes that droop congenially over wide dark eyes. His skin is a pure olive complexion—a smooth color that probably darkens dramatically in the depths of summer. 

His hair is cut close to his head though his bangs are a little long, a few strands brushing his eyebrows. His eyes are so dark that they never seem to lighten, even when they catch the bright fluorescent lighting of the locker room. He’s handsome, Sam thinks detachedly, but only because his olive skin and dark features make him striking and different. Still, Sam notices that he cuts out a significant presence in the room because the entire class is silent as they finish up tying their shoes and straightening their clothes. Sam’s not sure if this presence is some inner quality—like Dad, who can silence a room full of people he’s never even met just with a look—or if he’s a strict teacher. 

The boys file out and Schneider scans them, eyes finally landing on Sam. Sam can see something shift behind Coach Schneider’s face—he can’t put a word to it, but something changes, maybe softens, maybe hardens, and Sam is again reminded of Dad. “Sam, right? Welcome to Pike Creek.” He says with a dimpled grin. “Come on to my office, got the uniform and locker info in there.” He says with the nod of his head and a short wave of his arm in the direction of the hallway.

Sam follows the broad back into a cramped office. Gold plated plaques of awards and honorable mentions line the walls along with a framed diploma. Instead of books, the bookcase features various trophies—mostly basketball and soccer. Otherwise it’s a plain office with a piece of a nondescript color (it’s green, but it could also be called blue or grey) and white walls. The computer is on but on a screensaver, the school’s logo scrolling neon bright across the monitor.

“Sam Winchester, right?” He asks, half sitting on the corner of this desk. His voice is as pleasant as his smile, deep but relaxed without the rough, underused edge that Dad carries.

“Yes, Sir.” Sam nods with a small, charming-to-grown-ups smile as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Pretty boy, aren’t you?” Schneider’s face is suddenly serious, eyes piercing, smile gone but one corner still raised in a taunt. Sam’s own smile flattens as his stomach tightens and twists uneasily. 

“What?” Sam asks because what the hell? But he flinches because his own voice sounds like an explosion in the enveloping and oppressing silence of the small office. The words stun and for a second Sam’s not even sure Coach Schneider spoke, the words more like a murmur from a dream Sam can’t quite recall the next morning. It stuns him because no one’s ever called him anything like that before. He’s been called Sammy, geekboy, bitch, and dorkface—mostly by Dean. He was called faggot in his last school by the jock that gave him problems but that was from the guy’s lack of imagination than any real personal jibe and Sam had popped him one in the nose on principle (it was a rude word to be throwing around, after all). 

The grin that breaks from Schneider’s face is sudden and affable. Coach Schneider holds his hands up as if to stave off Sam’s winding temper. “Easy, Sam. I’m saying you look nothing like your old man, that’s all.” 

Sam blinks, shoulders relaxing momentarily from being caught off guard. “You know Dad?”

Coach Schneider raises his left eyebrow. “He didn’t tell you? Yeah, we’re old buddies. I helped him get set up in that duplex you guys got. I’ve known your old man for a long time and I’m just saying he’s an ugly son of a bitch so you must take after your mother—thank God, right?” He adds with a roguish grin. 

“You knew Mom?” The question rushes breathlessly out of Sam before he’s even aware that he’s thinking it.

Something flickers in Coach Schneider’s face, like he has a debate with himself before his smile becomes, briefly, less teasing and a little softer. “Not really. I came to the wedding, but that’s it.” He pauses, seems to be grasping for something. “She was beautiful.”

Sam relaxes for the most part, ignoring a little tremble that runs through him at the thought of Mom. This guy only saw mom at their wedding, but he saw more of her than Sam ever will. “So you’re the friend of Dad’s that’s coming over tonight?” He guesses, glossing over the subject of Mom and pushing it out of his head. Coach Schneider laughs, slapping his hands on his thighs, seeming unable to be still.

“Yeah, dude.” And it’s then, just when Sam lets his guard down, that Coach Schneider is suddenly there in his space and Sam’s nose-to-chest with the man. He’s overwhelmed by the musk of Coach Schneider’s cologne split moments before big hands are suddenly on his shoulders and instinct causes Sam to lurch backward. He almost gets away and almost stumbles at the same time, but those hands are on his hips, catching him, thumbs digging into bone.

“Get off!” Sam snarls, skin suddenly sensitive, face burning because it’s such a strange place for someone to touch him. Even more startled, Sam shoves, long hands pushing against heavy biceps. Coach Schneider steps back, hands held up in surrender while Sam stumbles with the abrupt loss of stability.

“Jesus, kid, I’m not attacking you! God, you’re as paranoid as your dad!” Coach Schneider’s voice is thin, smile sheepish, but Sam takes another step away from him. “I’m just measuring your shoulders to get a shirt size.” Coach Schneider looks genuine and Sam takes a deep breath to calm himself. This guy is Dad’s friend, he’s a gym coach, and Sam has nothing to worry about. He’s just a little on edge because this could be it. He didn’t even realize how jumpy he was. And maybe he had overreacted. Now that it’s over, now that Coach Schneider is looking at him as if he’s trying to decide how concerned he should be and Sam starts to feel a little guilty for acting so harshly and starts to worry that he offended Dad’s friend. 

“Yeah, how about asking next time?” The retort is sarcastic and snappish because who the hell determines a t-shirt size by measuring someone’s shoulders? Still, Sam doesn’t mean to sound so hot-tempered—Dad’s been getting on to him about his attitude lately and the last thing he needs is this guy tattle tailing to Dad that Sam’s attitude is bad outside of home as well. Sam does not need anymore of John Winchester’s “attitude adjustments” in the form of four a.m. training marathons, thank you.

Coach Schneider chuckles and moves to a metal foot locker. “School policy doesn’t want guys to be wearing their clothes too big, including their gym clothes. Something about looking like ‘young men’ instead of ‘hoodlums’? Usually the guys ask for one to three sizes too big.”

Sam nods but doesn’t say anything. It makes sense but the short burst of adrenaline is waning, making him tremble slightly and he doesn’t want the tremble to sound in his voice. He’s certain now that he overreacted and might have even come across as rude, but he’s still shaken up from the swift panic that had briefly rocked through him.

“Right, here you go.” Schneider hands the folded uniform to Sam. “When you’re done, grab one of those yellow jerseys out there and join the yellow team.”

Sam nods and turns, changing quickly and grabbing one of the jerseys. The other guys were welcoming enough and the yellows seemed pleased that someone tall was on their team. Ten minutes into the game all the yellows were jeering at the shirts because Sam was fast and agile and their leading scorer.

Mason, the guy from lunch, was on the opposite team. If he wasn’t part of the school’s basketball team already Sam thought he should be. Before the game was halfway through whoever was guarding Sam had already switched with Mason. With a t-shirt and shorts, Sam could see that he and Mason were built similarly—though Mason was actually a little bit more cut and bulky because he got his training in the weight room while Sam got training in by lifting shot guns and swinging machetes.

Soon Mason and Sam were heckling each other, pushing and pulling at each other so much that if it were a real game they both would have been fouled off the court long ago. But they were both laughing, or pretending not to laugh, and Coach Schneider just yells out an amused warning from the sidelines when things get too rough. Unlike in the locker room, Coach Schneider is such a non-presence on the court that Sam kind of forgets about the incident in his office. Yeah, it was weird, but Coach Schneider had an explanation. Sam thinks with an inner laugh that Coach Schneider probably just socially awkward—like Dad. Besides, he is Sam’s gym coach and Dad’s friend, not a disgruntled poltergeist or cornered werewolf that wanted to attack or harm Sam.

After the whistle blew Coach Schneider disappears in his office but Sam barely registers that. Mason had his arm slung around Sam, dark freckles standing out as he grins at him (Sam resisted the urge to blush a little, because how girly would that be?). Other players pat Sam on the back as they pass and Sam grins, reveling in the praise and attention. 

“Hey, man, that was awesome! Too bad you’re a transfer. Hey! I know that some transfers can’t play sports the first year unless there’s certain circumstances. Maybe you could talk to Coach about it? We’re already pretty far into condition, our first game’s in a few weeks, but you’re good and it’s something to do. I bet Coach’ll let you try out.”

“Coach Schneider?” Sam asks and doesn’t know why he cares, just a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“No, man. Coach Schneider coached basketball for a couple of years but he’s just sticking to gym and soccer now. Coach Johnson coaches basketball. So, what do you say, man? You could really help us out.”

'You could really help us out'. Sam feels a slight, pleased flutter—it feels so good to be needed by someone. Sometimes he feels so useless to Dad and Dean (but he doesn’t want to think about that right now, so he pushes it away.) Sam sighs dejectedly as he remembers Dean’s demand that Sam not pick up any extracurricular activities until they figure out the semantics of the hunt.

“But like I said at lunch, my Dad doesn’t really want me doing sports or anything after school until we’re settled in.” At Mason’s disappointed frown Sam can’t help to smile widely at the sensation of being wanted even while at the same time he feels anxious to please his new friend and wipe the disappointment from his face.

“I’ll ask Dad.” I’ll ask Dean, Sam mentally corrects himself. “Worst he can do is say no again, right?” Sam’s fairly certain that they will say no, but Sam doesn’t think it’ll disappoint him too much. Since this hunt could be—well, Sam would rather help out his family on this one.

Mason claps him on the shoulder. “That’s great, Sam!”

Sam changes back into his jeans and shirt, waves goodbye to Mason, and trudges out of the school. At the corner he stops and discretely pulls out one of his knives from his backpack and puts it in his pocket for easier access on the walk home.

When he gets to the duplex, which is probably one of the nicest places Sam’s ever lived in with clean water and working heat and everything, he sees that Dad and Dean are still gone. Dad was probably researching and Dean might have already found a job. Sam sets his bag on the table and sees a yellow post-it on the refrigerator door.

Won’t be back until 5:00, dinner at 5:30. Don’t forget to cook enough for Dad’s friend. Grill and charcoal out back. Don’t eat all of the steaks until we get there, Gigantor.

Sam rolls his eyes and takes out the steaks to thaw, wondering at how much of their meager money supply went into them and how many canned goods they would have to eat afterwards to make up for it. He notices some fresh corn still in their shucks to grill, too. Setting everything aside he moves into each room to gather the dirty clothes that hadn’t been washed yet and threw them in the washer, thinking how nice it was to have a working washer and dryer in their own place instead of having to go to the Laundromat. With that running he settles down to start his homework. He likes getting lost in the monotony of homework, but he’s usually done with it by the time he gets home from school, having learned long ago that Dad gets impatient if Sam doesn’t put research and training before school work. 

At twenty after five neither Dad nor Dean had come home yet. Sam starts the steaks and corn, figuring they would be home by 5:30 because they are going to have a guest. He also puts in some buttered rolls in the oven because both Dad and Dean seemed to have an obsession with having bread with every meal. The temperature is dropping outside but Sam only has a long-sleeved t-shirt on because of the heat of the grill and oven.

Sam hears a knock on the door and realizes with a jolt that it their guest tonight is Coach Schneider who Sam had embarrassed himself in front of by overreacting to a simple touch. Still, Sam can’t shake how Coach Schneider had creeped him out earlier by abruptly moving into Sam’s space and causing him to panic. Except Coach Schneider had had a reasonable explanation, and he’s Sam’s gym coach, Dad’s friend, and Sam’s just a little panicky because this could be it and Dean and Dad are almost half an hour late.

He hurries to the door because he shouldn’t leave the steaks too long (Dean will kill him if they’re anything over medium) and opens the door for his gym coach. “Hey, Coach Schneider, come in.” Sam invites with a nod, moving away as the man steps in, unconsciously keeping a couple of feet between them (no more surprise touches that make Sam jump out of his skin, thanks).

“Hey, Sam. I guess I’m early?” Schneider asks as he takes off his coat. Sam shrugs.

“Yeah, Coach. But they should be here, soon. I gotta get out back and watch the food, but there’s beer in the fridge and chairs out back, so make yourself at home.” Sam says with a smile that’s a little

“Thanks, pretty boy!” Coach Schneider calls at Sam’s back as he exits through the back door. Sam bristles at the name, knowing it has to be a poor choice for a taunt (first of all, it’s a little inappropriate because Sam doesn’t even know this guy, but also because Sam’s not even very attractive in a manly way—too tall and too skinny—much less pretty). Sam grits his teeth, determining to bear Dad’s socially awkward friends. Besides, the guy got them the duplex which had its own washer and dryer and grill and nice beds. Coach Schneider’s a good guy, just missed his social etiquette classes growing up. Besides, they don’t have many friends outside of the supernatural world, and Dad generally steers clear of other hunters anyway with the few exceptions being Bobby, Pastor Jim, and occasionally Caleb except that it’s been nearly a year since they’ve seen any of them.

Steps at the back door alert him to Schneider’s approach but Sam’s turning steaks and doesn’t really look up. A hand falls on the back of his neck. Dean and Dad do that all the time but it irritates Sam for another person to do it. He rolls his shoulders in a clear sign that he doesn’t want the touch. “So, Sam, how was your first day? No one gave you trouble?”

“Uhm, no, Sir. No trouble.” He rolls his shoulders again to get the heavy hand off of him and moves to turn the corn.

“How do you like your classes?”

“A lot of the material is repeat from my last school.” Sam answers honestly as he feels his patience wearing thin. Coach Schneider still hasn’t removed his hand, and Sam doesn’t want to be here with this stranger, turning steaks and corn, talking about school when Dad and Dean are half an hour late in a town with a hunt that could be it.

“Saw that you played a good game of basketball today, Sam. You should try out for the team.”

Sam nods absently, vaguely remembering Mason’s freckled and earnest face as he pleaded with Sam to join the team earlier, but it’s 5:25 and Dean and Dad aren’t here and Sam’s about to go ape shit with worry and why couldn’t either of them have the brains to pick up a damn phone? If Sam had been later than he said he would be home both Dad and Dean would already be out combing the town armed to the teeth.

He answers Coach Schneider in a much calmer voice. “I think I would like that, but Dean and Dad need me around here for a while and that’s alright, so I probably wouldn’t have time.” He’s going to ask Dean, maybe Dad, tonight anyway. He knows the answer will be no, but this way he can be honest to Mason and say that he tried. 

And though Sam really likes sports—he liked playing for the few soccer teams he’s managed to get on in the past couple of years—he understands that his family needs him home for now. Dad’s hunting and Dean’s working to feed them and the least Sam could do is do some of the housework and cooking like Dean had done for him when he was little. Still, Sam could freely admit to himself this time around that the “no” would sting a bit more than usual.

“That’s too bad, Sam. You’ve got talent.” Coach Schneider’s thumb grazes the nape of his neck, running through the curls there, and Sam’s stomach drops, the touch icy and alien because it’s so familiar but it’s usually Dean that touches him that way, sometimes when Sam’s asleep, or when he’s showing how proud he is of something that Sam does. This touch is wrong, the skin wrong, finger tips digging in the wrong places and it throws Sam off, makes him feel like he’s misplaced.

“Don’t—“ Don’t touch me! Is on the tip of his tongue but he hears something from the front end of the house that cuts him off. 

“Sammy!” A voice calls from inside and it’s Dean. It’s Dean and he sounds okay and Sam’s so fucking relieved all thoughts of Coach Schneider fly far and away from his mind. He jerks from the hand on his neck, throws down the tongs on the table, and rushes to the door.

“Out here, jerk!” And, yeah, it’s girly but he can’t keep the trepidation from his voice. He doesn’t know what he expected to happen the first day of the hunt of the thing that was causing fires, but it already feels like his big brother has just returned home victorious and safe from battle.

“You little bitch!” Dean calls merrily from the kitchen and Sam can hear the clink of beer bottles. “Smells good! You get my steak over medium and I’ll skin you!”

Dean’s okay even though there’s something loose out there that’s killing people with fires and Sam laughs, feeling something loosen within his chest. “Stop nagging, I’ve got this.” And so many other things are on the tip of his tongue. Mac, April, flirting, Mason, basketball. When Dean comes out, he slings an arm around Sam and holds him there closer than usual and obviously Dean’s been feeling the tension, worry, and anticipation Sam’s been feeling all day as well.

“Sorry I’m late, geekboy. Got a job today. Or, well, Dad’s friend set me up with a job at the gas station. It’s not as cool as Dad’s job—he’s working for the mechanic—but it’s alright and I saw a couple of hot chicks today so not a total loss, right?” He does sound genuinely forlorn at not being able to work as a mechanic. Dean’s good with cars, loves working with them, and prefers working with his hands.

For the first time Dean looks up and regards Coach Schneider though Dean’s probably been aware of his presence the entire time. “Thanks for that, by the way. Dad wasn’t clear on your name?”

Coach Schneider’s white grin stands out in the twilight. “Nathan Schneider. And it’s no problem. Your Dad’s an old friend of mine, I didn’t want to leave him hanging in a new town.” He says with a bashful shrug.

“He’s my gym coach at school, too.” Sam offers as he goes in the house and turns off the oven and pulls out the pan of bread.

“Well, that’s cool. Too bad you don’t have a family friend teaching a harder class, right?” Dean laughs when Sam comes back out with plates to serve up the steaks and corn. Dean gives him a little push. “Then again, I guess you don’t need any help, geekboy.” And though it sounds like an insult Sam has long ago figured out that it’s thinly veiled boasting and he feels his stupid chest warm with the praise.

Sam rolls his eyes, shouldering Dean as hears his dad’s footsteps within the house.

“How do you and Dad know each other, anyway?” Dean asks and Sam’s kind of interested, too. If Coach Schneider doesn’t know about the supernatural and was at Dad’s wedding and still considered himself a long time friend of Dad’s then he must have known Dad when Dad was really young. Sam can’t imagine Dad as a young boy, much less a young man—as anything other than this rapidly aging hunter that walks around with a sore body and a snarl on his lips most days.

“From the Marines.” Dad’s voice interrupts as he shows up in his flannel layers and a beer in his hand. He approaches Schneider and they exchange a one-armed man-hug that looks alien to Sam because Dad hasn’t thrown his arms around either Dean or Sam like that in a long time. Sam’s finished with the plates and indicates for Dean to help him. The two older men follow the food back into the eating area where Sam has already put the cooling rolls in a bowl in the middle of the table and set places for everyone.

“Boot Camp in San Diego.” Schneider continues as they settle down.

Dad grins at his friend and then nods at the food, sending a warm glance at Sam. “Smells good, Sam. Thanks, son.”

Sam nods, feeling a little dizzy with happiness. Dad’s compliments and thanks were coming further and fewer between than ever so it was nice to hear Dad speak towards him in words that weren’t gruff orders or reprimands. It’s only been recently that Sam’s taken up the cooking—it had been Dean’s job for as long as he could remember. Sam doesn’t mind it so much, feels glad to help out his family, and he doesn’t do too bad with the cheap ingredients he usually has so that’s a plus.

“Quite the housewife you’ve got there,” Coach Schneider adds and Sam bristles again but the comment doesn’t seem to affect either Dean or Dad so he tries to let it go. “It’s good.” Nathan continues after he swallows a mouthful. “You’re lucky to have someone to look after you, you bastard.” He jokes, jabbing Dad in the shoulder with a fist. To his mild horror Sam starts to blush, unused to so much blatant praise. 

“A housewife without all the nagging.” Dad adds with a small, playful wink towards Sam and again Sam’s so giddy to get such positive feedback from his father that he’s willing to overlook the jab at his masculinity (for now, anyway).

“Nah, man, Sammy helps out. We don’t always ask him to, but it’s kind of nice to come home after work and not have to worry about cooking and cleaning.” Dean throws in around a mouthful of steak, wrinkling his nose because for a long time that’s exactly what Dean had done, worked himself to exhaustion juggling hunting, work, taking Sam to school, and maintaining whatever place they were living in at the time. Dean reaches out and musses Sam’s hair. “I’m thinking about getting you an apron for your birthday, how’s that sound, Sammy?” Dean teases, grinning despite the food in his mouth.

Sam groans and Coach Schneider barks out a laugh. “I don’t know, Sam. You might even look good in it.” The comment makes Dad and Dean chuckle and Sam scowl.

Sam shrugs it off and the conversation is turned not a second later.

“So. The Marines? Same platoon?” Dean asks. and has always been especially interested in Dad’s war stories. Sam thinks that if they weren’t hunting then Dean might have joined the Marines after high school. It would have suited Dean and Sam thinks Dean would have excelled there. Maybe after they get whatever killed Mom Dean could live out a few of his dreams.

“I saved your Dad’s life.” Schneider says and leans towards Sam as if confiding in him though the entire table heard.

Dad rolled his eyes and swallowed his food. “I saved yours.”

“We saved each other’s!” Coach Schneider acquiesces with a wave of the fork in his hand and a grin. 

“He really did save my life out there.” Dad says seriously and his eyes took on the same shade they took whenever the night Mom died was brought up in conversation. “Pulled me out of the line of fire I never saw coming—RPG.” He clarifies.

“It was just a debt I had to pay off.” Coach Schneider says as he sets his beer back down. “He saved my life before.”

Dad laughs genuinely—loud and merry and Sam kind of jumps because he hadn’t heard that sound in months, maybe even longer. “Man, that was Boot Camp. And that was Drill Instructor Sergeant Turner.”

“I don’t know, man.” Coach Schneider shrugs. “He was one scary son of a bitch and he had it out for me. If it wasn’t for you he probably would have kicked me out of the Marines.”

“Drill Instructor Sergeant Turner was not the same as a RPG heading at your head.”

“Just as fucking scary, though.” Coach Schneider points out and they laugh and toast.

Sam sits back and lets out a breath that he’s been holding for what feels like the entire day. Dad and Dean were here, made it through the day, and were relaxed and confident and real. This hunt was going to be fine after all, whether it was the thing that killed Mom or not. And Coach Schneider wasn’t such a bad guy. He got them this nice place (with bedrooms and a backyard), he set Dean up with a job and maybe his Dad, too. He saved his Dad’s life once and attended Mom and Dad’s wedding. Sam was just stressed out and paranoid, like Coach Schneider had said.

He still feels thin and blue like a robin’s egg all over, but with every small smile he sees on Dad’s face and every laugh from Dean he feels a little bit thicker—a little bit more alive


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ*   
> This is the last chapter that is solely Insertcode11's original work.

They're in Mississippi when Castiel asks for their help on the new case and from Mississippi to Delaware is a good seventeen-hour drive. Castiel came to them a day after the latest death and after some research Sam and Dean determine that each death occurs at least a week and a half to two weeks apart. 

They decide not to push themselves to get to Delaware, not wanting to show up as the new sheriff and potential school guidance counselor looking like unshaven and unhygienic redneck rejects. Not to mention broke redneck rejects since the gas expenses alone would be close to three hundred dollars and they currently only have one-fifty in cash between them. 

After some debate between loading the car and calling Dad and Ash, they reluctantly agree that it shouldn't be too harmful to the case if they break up the trip over two and a half days. Being somewhat rested before approaching the case would be ideal, not to mention it gives them two nights of hustling to get extra cash in their pockets for traveling expenses and whatever residency they'll have in Pike Creek. 

Castiel generously offers to take them to Pike Creek via Angel Express which Dean adamantly (and kind of rudely, although it doesn't seem to bother the angel) turns down, claiming irreparable damage to vital bodily functions. Sam the peacemaker steps in when Castiel gets that pinched look on his face that either means he's offended or contemplating the cosmic mechanisms of the universe (neither Sam nor Dean have ever been totally able to read the angel's body language), and reasons that the two and a half extra days will give them time to put together a game plan for the case and also time for Ash to set up their fake identities and make sure all remnants of Dean's record (where they blamed him for the shit that went down in St. Louis and Baltimore) were erased from cyber existence. 

For an hour into the drive, Sam resolutely stays silent. He knows that Dean notices—of course Dean notices—but Sam's relieved when it becomes apparent that Dean has chosen not to say anything. Because while Dean seems concerned over Sam's silence, he doesn't know any other way to ask “what's wrong?” than “what's got your bitch panties in a twist this time, emo-boy?”. And while Sam has long come to accept Dean's tendency to be socially inept, he doesn't think he can take a question like that right now. Not without screaming and stabbing his big brother in the thigh with like a knife or something. 

So Sam's glad when Dean translates his worry by turning his antagonistic inclinations to Castiel, launching into a discussion (that sounded a bit like a one-sided argument on Dean's part) about the pros and cons of the Angel Express and riding in the Impala. Castiel's in the back seat, wearing his usual tense “I hate cars and this back seat and this is ridiculous” look.

“It would just be so much simpler if I flew you to Pike Creek. This... thing is confining. Like a prison.”

“You did not just call my baby a _thing_. She's gotten us out of more tight spots than anything else—right, Sam?” 

Sam doesn't answer, throat so tight it pulls at his temples. He's afraid that if he tries to make a sound it will end up like a scream. 

_You're a pretty boy, aren't you?_

So Sam shudders and doesn't say anything, just keeps staring out of his window at where the gray road blurs into the grass on the shoulder. He's blinded by the sun blinking like a strobe light through the dense stretch of trees that they zoom by but he keeps on staring out anyway, tense and frozen. Dean's probably glancing at him, perhaps Castiel too, but once again Dean seems to decide to drop the subject before even bringing it up because he goes on to Castiel. 

“Besides, we can listen to music while we drive. Don't have those kinds of luxuries on the Angel Express,” he says haughtily. 

“That's because it's so efficient you don't have time to listen to music...” the angel mutters from the back. 

“What was that?” Dean challenges but when the angel remains silent, probably glaring at Dean via the rearview mirror, Dean just huffs triumphantly. “That's what I thought.” 

_Pike Creek_ , Sam thinks. He never thought that he'd have to return there. Fuck, Sam doesn't want to do this hunt—he doesn't want to be within a three state radius of Pike Creek. 

_Such a tease, pretty boy. Gonna show you what a tease deserves._

Sam feels nauseous. His stomach roils and his head pounds. He tries to swallow thickly past it but the bitter hard edges of panic hang and snag in his tender throat. He wipes his hands self-consciously on his jeans, suddenly clammy with sweat. Oh God, they're going back to Pike Creek and Dean doesn't even know anything about what had happened before, the first time—he hadn't believed Sam when he had tried to tell his big brother back then. Then the outrage comes, so swift it startles him, makes chills rise on his skin. They're going to Pike Creek where that bastard took everything away from him—almost everything, anyway, and if they get there and Dean finds out about what really happened...

Sam might lose Dean, too. And he can't—he can't do that, can't live through that. Dean is everything. Even after what happened, Dean's still everything and... he's all that Sam has left. He blinks, knows everything's spinning out of control in his head, so he takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, not feeling much better but starting to gather his thoughts.

_Don't look at me that way, pretty boy. Hold still._

They're going back to Pike Creek, people are dying and even Castiel can't quite figure out what's going on so they have to go. And... And Sam isn't sixteen anymore. He's twenty-four and a skilled hunter and won't be overpowered by that bastard anymore. Besides, Nathan Schneider (he swallows back a rush of bile as the name rises unbidden in his mind) might not even be in Pike Creek anymore—or he may have retired as a gym coach and isn't even at the school anymore. The bastard could be dead, or he might not even be interested in Sam now. He might not even remember Sam. 

He might have... moved on. Sam grimaces at that painful thought, trying not to think about Nathan and another kid... because then that would be Sam's fault, wouldn't it? Oh, God. He’d never even thought of that possibility. The guilt nearly overwhelms him, sinking heavy, hooking so deep within that he feels the weight of it pull at his skin.

_You're a pretty boy. Aren't you? You'll never be free of me. I'll never let you go._

So what if Nathan is still at Pike Creek—at the high school? Sam has to keep his head and not let Dean suspect anything—Sam couldn't bear to see the shame and disgust in Dean's eyes if his big brother found out. Despair and panic creep up his skin and insides like ants marching. Dean finding out can't happen—Sam won't let it. Besides, even if Nathan's still around, even if worst-case scenario, he does approach Sam again, the fact is that there aren't too many humans that can single-handedly take Sam down anymore. 

It came down to the case and the kids that are dying so fast Sam doesn't have the time to worry over the past. He has to solve the case, keep Dean from finding out, and then get them both the hell away from Pike Creek. Sam can compartmentalize and repress as good as any Winchester, so that’s what he does. Besides, he has two days before they even get there and Dean is right here, beautiful and strong and within Sam's reach so Sam's not going to waste this (because if Dean finds out, these might be his last days with his brother like this). 

“This is a slow form of transportation,” Castiel’s gruff voice breaks through Sam’s thoughts. 

“My baby is not slow,” Dean grouses, eyes cutting to the passenger's seat more frequently. 

“This restricted form is not a baby. Nor is it Sam, whom you also call baby. You are rather confusing.” 

Dean's hand reaches out and lands on Sam's thigh and if Sam hadn't been half-expecting the gesture then he would have flinched. His eyes meet Dean's only to find his brother leering at him. 

“'Cause he's my baby boy,” Dean drawls, winking exaggeratedly at Sam, something warm dancing in his eyes. And just like that something lifts from Sam's mind—doesn't go away but shrinks and fades a little. He chuckles nervously at Dean's intense attention on him. 

“Well, ‘baby’ is a pet name,” Dean goes on with a shrug, looking in the rearview mirror to indicate that he's talking directly to Castiel now. 

“Neither your car nor Sam is any form of pet,” Castiel deadpans.

Dean makes a choking sound that might be a mix of laughter and regret. Sam looks over his shoulder at Castiel, dimples flaring when he forces a smile that gradually becomes natural. “Pet name is just a way to say ‘term of endearment’,” Sam explains with a shrug. “It’s just a way to show affection to someone.” 

“And Sammy loves it when I call him baby, don’t you babe?” Dean reaches over again and squeezes Sam’s knee and Sam finally relaxes fully in the moment. The squeeze probably means I’m here now and are you OK? The half smile Dean sends his way is exasperated and means something along the lines of since when did Castiel turn into our kid we have to educate? 

“So are pet names reserved for lovers?” 

Sam frowns; his brow crinkling and Dean can’t help but think about how adorable Sammy can still be (not that Dean would ever say that out loud). “Well, no. Parents and friends can have pet names. Like, both Dad and Dean call me ‘Sammy’. And Dad calls Dean ‘Deano’ sometimes.”

“And Bobby calls us ‘idjits’ and ‘morons’,” Dean throws in and Sam shoots him a glare for throwing in more complications. 

“I thought that Bobby insults your intelligence when he calls you that.” Castiel sighs, obviously more confused than ever. 

“Well, yeah, he kind of insults us when he calls us that, but it also means that he likes us no matter what we do,” Sam tries to explain. 

“So, when he calls you two little girls, he's not just insulting your manhood or saying that he wants to be your lover?” the angel asks slowly, eyes narrowing incredulously in the rearview mirror. 

Dean stiffens and grips the steering wheel harder with the hand that's still on it, gritting his teeth. “That crotchety old drunk—hey!” his rant gets broken off by Sam who jabs him in the ribs. 

Sam pats the back of Dean’s hand that hasn’t moved from his knee and gives him a saccharine smile. “That’s enough ‘help’, sweetie,” he purrs warningly and ignores the way Dean’s nose wrinkles at the name before turning around in his seat to look at Castiel. 

“OK, first of all, Bobby does not want to be our lover and we really, really don't want him to be, either. And when he calls us that stuff—OK, yeah, Bobby’s complicated,” Sam waves a hand, dismissing that example and moving on. “But we call you Cas, that’s kind of a pet name.” 

“So you want to be my lover?” the bewildered angel asks, tilting his head in thought. 

Dean half-growls, half-groans in disgust, doing a little shudder that Sam mentally calls Dean's “I got the willies dance”. “That's a hell to the no,” he mutters and Sam gives him another jab to the ribs, earning Dean's version of a bitchface. 

“Not... quite, Cas,” Sam says as delicately as he can. “The fact that we gave you a... pet name means that we like you—you're a good friend.” 

Castiel nods and looks contemplative but remains silent, obviously the end of the conversation for now. Sam knows that he’ll ponder it off and on and may or may not bring it up again depending on his conclusion. 

They drive for eight hours and pull into Morristown, Tennessee around eight that evening. They had a late breakfast and hadn’t stopped to eat again except for some snacks from the gas station earlier so Dean is starving, cranky, and bored stiff. The last two hours were filled with Sam and Castiel going on and on about some book like they were conducting the Sam ‘n’ Cas Book Club there in the Impala. 

Now, Dean usually thinks it's kind of sexy when Sam gets his geek on—when his cheeks flush in excitement, his eyes brighten and he spouts off wells of information looking wide and eager at Dean and Dean can't help but remember little Sammy on his lap with a book while Dean painstakingly taught Sam how to read. 

...Not that the memory of little Sammy in his lap is what Dean thinks is sexy about the whole thing. He's not that much of a pervert. But the bright, flushed look Sam gets when he's geeking out is sexy and Dean just can't help but feel a sense of pride, too, because he had a hand in how fucking smart Sam turned out to be. 

But the point is that while Sam is sexy as hell when he's being a nerd, it's not so sexy when it lasts for two hours and Dean can't pull over and lay Sam out in the backseat because a damn angel is currently occupying that space. One time Dean even catches Castiel's blue eyes and Dean could swear that the stupid little shit actually looks smug like he knows that his mere presence is giving Dean blue balls. 

Distantly Dean realizes that he’s taking out his frustration on the angel like he always does because Castiel probably doesn’t even know what “blue balls” means, much less grasps the social subtlety it would take to consciously tease Dean with a geeky Sam but not let Dean do anything about it. 

Naturally, by the time they pull up to Morristown, Dean isn’t only starving, cranky, and bored but he's also sexually frustrated and suspicious of the seemingly clueless angel that just might be dicking around with him out of nothing but pure spite because Dean dissed the Angel Express. 

Ever since Cas pulled both Sam and Dean from death in the car crash a little over a year ago, the angel barely left them alone. The one time he did leave them for a few days to go upstairs (Dean still has a hard time thinking Cas could be real, much less a heaven or God, so Dean has a hard time thinking or saying either) was the time Sammy got snatched by that yellow-eyed son of a bitch on Dean’s watch. 

Thankfully just because Castiel wasn't there didn't mean that he wasn't reachable. It took an awkward prayer and he was back but unable to locate Sam—something demonic (and, disturbingly, also something angelic) blocking his path. As they frantically searched for Sam, Cas revealed that he thought that he was called back by a few of his superiors on the days that Azazel—the demon—needed to kidnap Sam and a few of the other cursed children on purpose. 

“It’s not a coincidence, Dean,” the angel had told him gravely. “I don’t comprehend it, either, but beings of heaven must be working with Azazel.” 

As soon as Dean received the mental message from Andy, Castiel transported Dean, John, and Bobby to Cold Oak just in time to see Ava Wilson go psycho and slaughter Andy. They snatched Sam out of his one-on-one fight with superman and something angelic—bright light show with an ear-shattering voice—snapped Jake away from the battlefield. 

While John, Dean, Sam, Bobby, Ash, and Ellen had followed the iron railroad hints that Samuel Colt had left behind, drawing pentagrams on maps and finding the cowboy cemetery in the center, Castiel had investigated the heavenly interference. 

“It’s a superior of mine—someone who I never thought…” he had trailed off sadly, not looking Sam and Dean in the eye as they stood in the middle of Bobby’s scrapyard. “I’m sorry,” the angel had looked like it had been his fault that his own brother had betrayed him. “It’s Zachariah—he’s been working with Azazel. No one’s sure how long but I’m afraid that this is a plan that has been centuries in the making.” 

The idea that heaven and hell had been working together on this “plan” for centuries was sobering. Dean had wanted to hide Sam away until the whole thing blew over—or at least until others had taken care of the problem. Sam had been stubbornly insistent and had looked up at Dean with frightened eyes but a determined set to his mouth and said, “Who else is there, Dean?”

Who else, indeed, since it was obvious that they didn’t know who to trust in heaven and whatever was going down in that cowboy cemetery was clearly imperative on an apocalyptic scale. 

Castiel blinked them in to the middle of the gigantic Devil's Trap just as Jake was opening the Devil's Gate, only to be shot down by John and Sam. Struggling against the nightmare force of the breadth of Hell, they closed the door before anything more than a handful of phantoms escaped. Azazel had shown up then, knocking a handicapped John aside and wrapping his arms around Sammy's neck, pressed his lips close to Dean's little brother’s cheekbone. Dean, ever on a near-psychic level with his little brother, had waited for the signal shifting of Sam's bright eyes and then Dean had raised the Colt and shot Azazel dead. 

And the aftermath... Dean shakes his head, not wanting to think too hard on it all. The Winchesters were finally free of the demon and its special children (with the exception of Sam). Castiel was ordered to stick around for an indeterminable amount of time because Heaven was apparently still unsure of the extent of Zachariah's betrayal and if there were other forces in Heaven and Hell conspiring to bring about the end of days—and what exactly these plans had to do with the Winchesters. 

So Castiel was their heavenly bodyguard and Sam was free of his painful visions and whatever sick plans Azazel had for him—and safe from plans of others because of the angel's presence. Dean really doesn't mind that the angel is around, even though it stings and burns and boils inside to need someone else to protect Sam (Dean should be enough, he's always been enough, except when Sam left for Stanford—except for when he was snatched from underneath Dean's nose and thrown into a demonic game of Survivor). He doesn't mind, except for when said angel and said little brother geek out for hours, simultaneously turning him on and boring him to tears. 

It was Sam's fault that Castiel had become such a rabid reader. Unable to sleep, not needing to eat, and a blushing virgin choking on Bible verses whenever Dean took him to a strip club (or what Castiel called “the den of iniquity”), Castiel was a nightmare to live with—inquisitive and as petulant and cranky as an angelic being can be. So Sam had suggested that Castiel start reading to occupy his time. 

It was all fine and well until Castiel and Sam started discussing the books. Sam gets all orgasmic over the fact that Castiel has lived through three-fourths of the topics that they discuss and constantly tries to pick through the angel's experiences and in return semi-patiently answers Castiel's never-ending queries about the many nuances of human living. 

As Sam and Castiel's conversation turns to the similarities between _A Thousand and One Nights_ and Vikram Chandra's _Red Earth and Pouring Rain_ Dean pouts and slides further down in the seat of the diner booth he's sharing with Sam and mentally renames their geek club the “Sam and Cas BFF Book Club”. 

“So, football season, right Sammy?” Dean cuts in eventually and Sam turns to him, all soft eyes that make Dean's inner (like, inner, inner) girl kind of do this melting... thing. His little brother smiles apologetically and runs his hand up and down Dean's thigh under the table. 

“Yeah, I'm really hoping that we get to catch more of this year's season,” Sam follows Dean's lead seamlessly and for five blissful minutes their conversation stays on football. But then of course that fucking angel—Dean becomes even more convinced of nefarious schemes going on behind those faux-innocent eyes—somehow turns the topic of football into Hitler, of all the fucking things. 

“I don’t know, man. Hitler had to have been supernatural or been involved with it somehow. He was so systematic—both in the war front and in the genocide of the Jews. He broke their faith. I mean, Elie Wiesel said that he had more faith in Hitler than in anyone else—the Allies or God. Hitler made them see that he could keep his promises of death while to the Jews God failed to keep his promises of redemption,” Sam pauses. “Was Hitler a demon?” 

Dean perks up a little because, hey, that would be kind of interesting. And it would explain a lot. Dean furrows his eyebrows, wondering if demons somehow managed to possess politicians or major cult leaders like that... Kool-Aid guy. Jim Jones? Yeah, that name sounded about right. God, he hoped not. It’d be too damn hard to get political figures alone long enough to exorcise them.

Castiel shakes his head weightily. “Hitler was just a man,” he reports regrettably. Dean deflates and turns his head to peruse the waitresses, praying that one of them is hot enough to distract him. At least Dean's pretty sure that God does exist after all because he listened to Dean's desperate prayers in the car earlier and blessedly diverted Castiel and Sam's attention from the finer points of Marxism to the Vietnam War—a topic that Dean's actually interested in and knows a lot about—more than Sammy, apparently, since Dean had actually manned that conversation. 

“There are many who believe that when the world ends it will be in much the same systematic manner as Hitler destroyed Europe and the Jewish population,” Castiel says with a twitch of his shoulders that might be a shrug. 

Sam leans forward over his coffee, eyes wide and wide lips parted. “Yeah? I mean, is that true? Was Hitler…was that, you know, prophetic?”

Castiel blinks, chapped lips pursing together. “I just gave an example of human speculation. Even angels do not know everything. What Hitler did, it was so obvious, everyone knew, but nobody really wanted to understand or accept his crusade of death and destruction until it happened to them. You’ve witnessed this same phenomenon with hunting. People will try their best to ignore or explain away or think the best of something that they can’t understand—right up until it kills them.” 

Dean groans because he gets this stuff and it’s interesting but he doesn't think it's exactly a topic for dinner conversation because _hello, depressing_! Sam turns to him and blinks, the corner of his mouth rising in another apologetic smile. His little brother's big hand moves higher on Dean's thigh, nimble fingers grazing over his crotch. Sam leans in and kisses the shell of Dean’s ear. 

“So, the hunt, how are we going to start?” Sam asks, still close to Dean's ear so his coffee-scented warm breath tickles the skin of Dean's neck. The older brother grins and sits up straighter, letting Sam's fingers continue to play with the seam of Dean's jeans, basking in the feeling of the nerves in his body awakening and humming like he's entering a high. They toss in ideas about the hunt until the waitress practically trips up to their table with their food.

“Here you guys go. So sorry about that wait.” 

Dean looks up at the waitress and she’s cute, probably college-aged, looking tiny and hoping like hell that they’re not mad about the wait. She's giving them her best smile—the best she can muster when she's clearly so tired and overwhelmed, anyway. 

“No one can be mad when you smile like that, sugar,” he drawls at her and relishes in the blush that immediately springs to her cheeks. 

“Well,” she says a little nervously, shifting her weight and reaching up to nervously straighten her already impeccable nametag. “Just let me know if you need anything.” 

Sam watches his brother flirt with the waitress with something hard and obtuse hung in his throat that just might be jealousy, which catches him off guard. Sure he's usually irritated by Dean's constant flirting, but he understands that it's just part of his big brother's personality. But he's never really felt jealous before—at least, not since the beginning of their relationship and everything was so new and Sam wasn't sure about anything. But he feels this sick, desperate drop in his stomach like he's going down the sharp hill of a roller coaster. He doesn't understand this sudden overwhelming fear that Dean's going to leave him. 

_You'll always be mine, no one else will want you after me, not even your family._

Sam swallows and fervently pushes the resurgent memory away, turning his attention away form his brother and to his newly arrived, luke-warm food.

Dean feels his smile grow wider bordering on a leer. “I’m sure I will,” he drawls. 

She flushes again and Dean makes it a point to watch her walk away. When he turns back around Sam is looking away from him, which is weird since Sam usually makes it a point to give him an exasperated look. Dean reaches out, thumping his little brother on the thigh, inducing the younger man to look up. Dean grins his innocent little-boy grin that he knows melts Sammy’s heart (please, Sam can’t hide the way his eyes soften when he sees this smile—it's the only weapon Dean has against Sam's puppy eyes). As predicted, Sam's eyes do soften and a smile begins to bloom on his lips. Before Sam can tease him, Castiel leans in, blue eyes serious. 

“Do you wish to copulate with the thin waitress?” Castiel asks, loudly, eyes wide with interest and Dean suddenly feels a little like a speck of matter beneath a microscope. 

“What?” Dean sort of squawks and turns to Sam to see if he heard the angel wrong but Sam’s trying to hide the fact that he’s smiling by stuffing as much grilled chicken into his mouth as he can. 

“No!” he practically shouts before looking around the diner self-consciously and leaning over the table as well, whispering. “I only copu—have sex with Sam!” Dean hisses, punching Sam in the ribs because his shoulders are shaking violently he's laughing so hard. Dean doesn't think that it’s funny at all. 

“I don't understand what's wrong with the word copulate when it's the correct term for penetrative sexual acts,” Castiel points out. 

Dean whimpers in bewilderment while Sam chokes heartily on his grilled chicken. Dean reaches up and slaps Sam hard on the back several times, earning a bitchface from Sam at the needless force. Meanwhile, the angel goes on. 

“And there are other words you don't like me to use—like mating and conjoining. Even coupling, which I think sounds more polite than sex. So, you wish for her to join you when you have sex with Sam,” the youngest Winchester stops choking and freezes with wide, startled eyes. Dean grins when he realizes that Sam is sporting a faint blush beneath the fringe of hair. Dean's hand slides down Sammy's spine and rests on the small of his back. 

“Well. Now that you mention it… What do you think about a threesome, baby boy?” Sam gives Dean a hard look but blushes just a little bit more, ducking his head and that's just the reaction Dean was aiming for. 

A threesome... Sam just doesn't think that he'll ever be into that. But he seriously doubts Dean would be, too. Sure he'll think it's hot and awesome until he gets into the bedroom and realizes that he has to share Sam. Then he'll turn into the jealous, grouchy bitch that's appeared sporadically ever since they started the whole... incestuous boyfriends thing. So Sam clears his throat and raises his eyebrows, shrugging a little. 

“I'm open to it,” it's obvious he's lying because he isn't into it but it makes Dean narrow his eyes anyway as he tries to figure out what game Sam is playing.

“Well,” the angel sighs, exasperated. “You called her 'sugar', which is a ‘pet name’,” he reasons, complete with finger air quotes. “And you gave her a look that usually makes Sam go red in the face.” Dean barks out a laugh and Sam glowers, appalled, and slams down the coffee mug he had just raised to his lips. 

“I do not blush!”

The angel blinks incredulously at Sam as Dean butts in. “You do, and you do this squirming thing-” 

“Shut up, Dean!” Sam hisses, his hand sneaking under Dean's flannel shirt, seeking out the taut skin over his ribs, pinching and twisting. Dean jumps in his seat and just barely clamps down on a howl before it escapes. 

“You little bitch!” he hisses back, reaching up and flicking Sam's ear. His little brother scowls at him and pinches his tender skin again, causing Dean to groan and wiggle, trying to slap Sam's hand away and Sam immediately tries to slap the hand that's trying to slap his hand away and pretty soon they're struggling in the seat, jabbing each other and gritting their teeth.

“You two look ridiculous,” Castiel deadpans and the two boys freeze, staring at each other before turning their wide eyes to the angel. They poke and pinch at each other again, this time as they untangle themselves, and return to their dinner and coffee, clearing their throats awkwardly. 

“Well,” Dean tries to recover. “We call you Cas and we don’t wish to copu—have sex with you,” Dean points out and Castiel sighs, frustrated. 

“I do not understand. Why not simply call people by their names?” he pauses as something occurs to him. “Why would you not have sex with me? I do believe that my vessel is appealing by human standards,” he turns to Sam, blue eyes wide. “I think a lot of humans would have liked to copulate with this vessel—the vessel's wife certainly did.”

Dean’s mouth flaps uselessly against Castiel’s honest and inquiring gaze because what the hell—how is he even supposed to answer that?

Sam leans over and nudges his big brother’s arm, whispering. “...Do you think they have Earth for Dummies we can get him?” 

Dean thinks that duct tape would be a more useful and less expensive investment, but Sam will give him that look that’s a mix between his bitchface and his puppy eyes so he doesn't voice that opinion. 

  
-*-

  
After food and checking into a motel, Sam and Dean head out to search for the most ideal place to hustle for money. Castiel leaves to go... wherever he goes when he's not with Sam and Dean. They're not too sure and Castiel is always vague on the details, so they assume he goes back to Heaven. But he leaves them in the parking lot of the diner—disappearing out in the open where humans can see, much to Sam and Dean's exasperation—with a vague, displeased frown on his face.

He's never approved of their hustling habits, but has also never provided them with an alternative source of money. So he leaves Sam and Dean to troll around alone. Morristown is small so there's not much to offer, but after driving around they figure that the most populated dives in town is a tie between Fuzzy Holes and Hoo Ray’s. 

To Dean it's no competition because hell to the no were they ever going to step foot into any place called “Fuzzy Holes”, what the fuck? 

At least their angel was already gone because Dean didn’t feel like having that conversation tonight. In fact, he was sore from the ride and tired as hell and didn't feel like hustling a bunch of hillbilly assholes tonight, either. But they need a bit more money than usual—enough for a down payment on whatever housing they get, plus something to eat until their paychecks kick in. So instead of Sam hanging back like he usually does because the little (big) saint doesn't like cheating people out of their money, the plan tonight is to enter at separate times and act like they didn’t know each other. If they didn't make any mistakes and their targets didn't wise up to their ploy (like they did outside of Denver several months ago and Dean finally felt what it was like to get a bottle broken over his head) then Sam and Dean should hopefully escape with double the winnings tonight. 

Sam enters first, constructing his con carefully on his face only after he leans over and kisses Dean teasingly soft before he steps out of the Impala. Hoo Ray’s is rather large, featuring a long bar with booths, tables, and party tables crammed together from wall to wall. The lights are dimmed so that people's faces are mostly shadowed and the air is heavy with overly sweet smoke. In the far left corner surrounded by tables, Sam sees a stage for karaoke where a short, thick woman with a Transformers t-shirt is belting Heart's “Barracuda” and bending her knees up and down in something that might be dancing if she were doing it in any particular rhythm. 

It takes a moment to melt into the atmosphere—a moment too long, a panicked voice in his head says, but he looks around he sees that no one's noticed him. It's hard for him, this close social environment with sweaty skin and alcoholic breaths. Dean's better, can walk into a crowd and become part of it even if he still feels awkward inside. 

For Sam, if he feels like he doesn't fit on the inside his body translates that feeling and all of a sudden he's all elbows and knees and high-pitched laughs and poor conversation. He has to push that awkward part of himself away, believe he's someone else, or himself but better. Eventually, he gets it. Becomes the persona his con demands and slips in amongst the crowd, easy-going smiles, warm laughs and bantering jokes like everyone else. He gets a beer and peruses the pool tables. There are seven tables pushed too close together, and the small square eating tables on the floor almost overrun the pool area. Smoke from cigarettes billows up to the low-hanging lamps with dirty green glass shades. It's claustrophobic but familiar. 

Sam's been going to bars like this one since he was thirteen. Soon Sam spots a small group in their mid thirties. Clearly friends, and clearly regular patrons by the way they toss jokes around with the waiters and other patrons across the room. They were obviously blue-collar workers, rough around the edges with big grins and tipsy eyes. It's probably a nightly or weekly thing for them to meet up like this. Sam walks up to them and smiles bashfully. He's wearing a long-sleeved black shirt that has three white buttons at the top. It's a little loose and coupled with his threadbare baggy jeans the ensemble is supposed to take away from his height by emphasizing his thinness, hopefully making him look younger and unthreatening. 

“Hey,” he drawls, trying to emulate the lazy speech of the South without overdoing it. “See you need another man. Is it OK if I play?”

One man with the beginnings of a beer gut regards him coolly, eyes traveling up and up Sam's body before taking in the ill-fitting shirt and the cheap jeans. Sam can see when the guy registers Sam as someone from his class—someone the guy can relate to, even a little, and Sam tries to push away the twinge of guilt before it has time to pluck at his heart. He also sees when the guy registers Sam's younger age—his eyes kind of spark and sharpen in a way that they weren't before. Not suspicious, more like wondering how good Sam is at the game. 

“Sure, man,” the guy says finally, all friendly deep voice as he reaches up to scratch the dark shadow on his chin. “It'd be nice to even it up. You any good?”

Sam shrugs and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I used to play a lot in college, I was pretty good. Haven’t played in a long time, though,” Sam watches beneath his bangs as the three men share a knowing smile. Kids that played a little pool in college are usually viewed as just that—kids that played around with the billiards instead of taking it “seriously”. They're viewing Sam as a still wet behind the ears rookie, which is just fine with Sam. The guy who's been doing all of the talking so far nods, reaching up and adjusting his greasy blue and white baseball cap—a motion so familiar that for a moment Sam can't help put superimpose an image of Bobby doing the same thing. 

“Well, you can play with me for the warm-up, see if you'll be any good. Then we can all split and make this into a competition. What do you say?” 

Sam makes a show of relaxing like he's just so relieved that they're giving him a chance. “Sounds cool, man. Name’s Sam.” 

“Joey,” the guy nods and reaches out, shaking Sam's hand with a strong grip. He gestures to the other two. “That’s Randy,” he points with his thumb to the shortest of the bunch. His stomach is more rounded and has the beginnings of a second chin forming, hidden behind a thicker beard of a brown color so light it looks red, reminding Sam of the color Dean's beard gets when he goes too long without shaving. 

“And Patrick,” Joe finishes, pointing to the tallest. He has dark hair and darker eyes, the bridge of his nose raised and crooked probably from a previous break. He's also the younger of the two, still older than Sam by a few years, and dressed in dark jeans and a green flannel that's rolled up to his elbows to reveal thick forearms covered by weatherworn skin.

His gaze lingers on Sam for a few moments longer than the others and Sam pretends he doesn't notice. They start the game and Sam finds the three men easy to get along with, all of them seamlessly falling into a routine of friendly ribbing. They're eager to give Sam pointers and Sam plays it up, wide-eyed bashful and thankful, rubbing the back of his neck when he makes “mistakes” and has to be corrected. Patrick seems to gravitate toward Sam, always sidling up beside the youngest Winchester, leaning in close so that their heads are bent together. Sam plays hard to get—or he really doesn't want Patrick anywhere near him, no matter how nice he seems, and he plays his mild reprehension off as coyness. Unfortunately, Patrick seems to enjoy Sam's shyness, pressing in further, voice dropping softer when he gives Sam advice, offering a small and attractive smile just for Sam. He would feel... flattered, Sam supposes, if...If they weren't heading for Pike Creek in the morning. But Patrick is genuinely nice it seems and he doesn't try to touch Sam too much with his hands, which makes Sam feel less jumpy and more capable of staying in character. Eventually, they split up to make a mini-tournament and Sam lets himself immediately fall in the loser’s bracket. 

Over the next hour he makes a dramatic comeback, gaining the small money that the four of them had bet with. A small crowd forms just as Sam begins his tentative winning streak. When their little tournament is over and he’s pocketing the small money another man—Bill, Joey calls him—pushes to the front and scoffs at the three friends for losing “to some college twink”. 

Sam doesn't even bristle at the insult, there were supposed to be three beers and a couple of shots between the first game and now for him (not quite so many, some he drank, some he palmed out of sight). But Patrick immediately moves to defend him, which Sam supposes is kind of sweet. “Back off, Bill,” Patrick snarls.

“What's the matter, Patty? Got the queer eye for this little fa-”Patrick rushes him, fist cocked back but held back at the last minute by Joey and Randy. 

“Easy, Patrick!” Randy growls even though Joey looks like he'd rather let Patrick have at Bill.

But Sam sees an opportunity and he smirks, leaning on his cue. “So you think you can do better... Bill, is it?” Bill sneers, yellow teeth and twitching eyelids. 

“You ain't worth it.” 

“Sam, don't-” Patrick starts but Sam just makes a show of swallowing thickly—of acting braver than he actually feels.

“You want to bet on it?” Sam says bravely but makes sure to rub the back of his neck anxiously.

Bill's top lip curls as he digs for his wallet. “You bet your skinny ass, kid,” he growls gruffly as he throws the bills on the table.

Twenty minutes later over Bill's rough and boisterous bragging Sam hears Dean blow in. Sam has to stop himself from throwing anything more than a cursory glance in the direction of the door just as the others do, though it's hard because Dean's wearing his leather jacket and the jeans with the holes at the corners of his back pockets and a thready one over his left knee. Sam resists letting his eyes linger and, turning back to the game where he begins winning, effectively silencing Bill's egotistical boasts. Patrick, who had been glaring sullenly at Bill the entire time—on Sam's behalf, probably—begins to smirk triumphantly as Sam plays the older, uncouth man into a corner. 

Sam hears Dean’s boisterous laughter and loud flirting with the female bartender, feeling that same heavy weight of jealousy that he felt in the diner and he knows that it's unnecessary, especially when this is part of Dean's con. Sam shakes his head, shakes everything off, and grins shyly at Bill even as he stuffs Bill's money into his pocket. The older redneck huffs and grumbles, waddling off to the bar, calling to the bartender before he even gets there for a shot of whisky. 

Another challenger steps up and judging by the way that Joey's clapping him on the back and joking about him getting his ass “whooped” by a punk college student Sam's opponent is at least a little friendlier than Bill. The black man—Sam misses his name because he's too busy eying Dean stepping up a few tables away—has sharp, deep-set eyes and bright white teeth. Sam breaks at the same time Dean does and so their con goes on, the two of them acting as if they don't know each other, together working as many targets as they can. Sam sheepish and completely taken aback by his miraculous winning streak while Dean plays a billiards veteran, big starting bets and loud challenges. 

Sam becomes the favorite of the crowd around his table. Bets escalate higher and people start plowing Sam with beer and shots to congratulate him on his wins. No one really gets angry that he keeps on winning because he had hit it off so well with the regulars Patrick, Joey, and Randy—all of whom stay in his corner the entire time, joking with him and heckling his opponents, kind of like his own cheer section. In fact, Patrick becomes Sam’s self-appointed personal servant. He holds Sam’s drink, pushes away the crowd when they close in curiously as Sam takes his position. Patrick also steadfastly defends Sam's honor (OK, he just says “back the hell off”) when guys like Bill start ragging on Sam from across the room where Dean has become their champion. 

The people Dean garners for a crowd were the rougher, bolder, and definitely drunker bar patrons—all packed together like a shadow. The noise level on their side is deafening, men betting on and against Dean while women sidle up to his big brother and try to yell over the din the rest of the crowd is making. Despite it all Sam wins against a short, flabby man with a wiry white mustache who is probably too drunk to stand, much less play pool or bet as much money as he does. Sam takes it, though, folds up the greasy bills neatly and tucks them in his pocket. He lays the cue on the table, waves off his drink that Patrick silently offers him, and makes a show of stretching. 

“I’m done, guys,” he declares, smiling alcohol-relaxed and bleary. “We’ve been at this for hours! Haven’t you had enough!” he jokes and the crowd laughs, a thin arm shooting into his vision to wave another free beer in his face. 

“No thanks, really,” Sam laughs, pushing the arm away. “I'm done. Don't want to press my luck any further.”

“One more!” someone from the crowd calls. “But who's crazy enough to play him?” Joey cackles, slapping his knee.

Patrick reaches out a hand tentatively and then withdraws it halfway like he's not sure what to do with it. Really, Patrick has to be one of the sweetest strangers Sam's ever met. But the moment is awkward because Sam doesn't actually want Patrick near him, touching him, or looking at him like that, like he wants something from Sam.

Randy, laughing and rosy cheeked, trips up to Joey and breaks the tense moment. His small eyes find Sam and he grins harder. “Sam!” he cries happily and clamps a meaty hand on Sam's shoulder. “Look, man. You've gotta play that cocky bastard over there—he has to be hustling those morons. But you're unstoppable tonight, man. You can beat him—you have to teach that asshole a lesson. C'mon!”

Sam’s eyes widen. “No, man. I mean I’ve won a lot of money tonight! If he’s really hustling wouldn’t I lose it?” he reasons worriedly. Playing against each other wasn't in the plan—too risky. They could slip up; reveal that they know each other, that they're both in on this con. “And, look. He looks—tough and I don't want any trouble...”

The guys are quiet and for a moment Sam thinks that he's convinced them. Then Patrick steps up, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder—the meat of his thumb warm against the nape of Sam's neck. “No, Sam,” he says, voice soft and deep. “You're an unbelievable player and that guy's so drunk by now he can barely play! And he needs to be taught a lesson—he can't just come in here and take our money, right?”

Sam swallows, once again tamping down on the guilt before it can well up. They seem to have overlooked the fact that Sam is a stranger here, too, because they're including him in their little group as if he's always been there. 

“And if things don't go so well we'll back you up, Sam. We won't let you get hurt by that guy,” Patrick promises, dark eyes liquid with sincerity. 

“You’re a goddamn natural, Sam,” Randy cuts in. 

“He won’t be able to turn down the challenge. You don’t even have to bet your money if you don’t want. We’ll put the money in the pot—winner takes all.”

Sam’s mouth falls open incredulously and for a moment he loses his persona. “No! What? No! You can’t do that!”

Joey laughs. “Yeah, man, that’s how it works here. This isn’t the official pool tournament that we have every other Thursday but this has been way more entertaining. So we're laying down our bets and we ain't exactly askin' your permission. All we want you to do is beat that son of a bitch in return!” 

Before Sam can protest further (and he has a lot of protests), Joey gives Sam a hard shove, sending Sam stumbling right up to Dean’s table. Sam just barely catches his momentum by flinging his hands out and catching himself on the beat-up wooden edge. He looks up, stunned at the crowd watching him. A new game is just starting, the balls racked but not broken. Dean’s leaning his hip against the table, looking for the world like he’s been waiting on Sam to arrive. Two blonde girls in denim shorts that would pass more truthfully as bikinis are hanging off of Dean, whispering in his ear with glossed candy lips. Sam once again feels the rush of jealousy and he can't explain it—he normally doesn't get jealous. Dean's a flirt; ever since he and Sam got together he looks but doesn't touch—even now his hands are firmly wrapped around his cue. And this is part of his persona, part of the con to get money that they need.

Sam has no other explanation except that Pike Creek looms ahead and Sam could lose Dean soon so he can't stand to see anyone else but him touch his brother right now. Sam blinks and tries to shrug everything off because they can't afford to screw up now. The tight feeling in his throat remains, however. Meanwhile, the money pile is rising and the shouts among betters are getting louder. Dean raises an eyebrow at him and quirks one corner of his mouth, cool and quiet in the crowd. 

“Name’s Dean. Seems to me like you're the crowd favorite. We gonna play or what? Sammy, is it?” Dean feels himself relax a little as he watches his little brother fake-deliberate. Or maybe Sam really is worrying about the con and the risk they're taking getting found out. Dean is only a little worried about that—they do need the money but as far as Dean’s concerned they have enough for tonight and if things get bad all they have to do is run. But on the other hand if they pull this off they'll get even more—and it'll be fun. And it'll probably be really hot, too. Dean’s just glad he can finally look at Sam straight on. Something like relief floods Dean now that he’s able to watch over his little brother more fully. Sam’s been just out of sight the whole night, looking hot in that black pull over with the three buttons unbuttoned, revealing the dip of his collar bone and honey skin. His baggy jeans have fallen throughout his many pool games and now cling desperately to his hips. 

As if to emphasize this point Sam seems to reach his decision, crossing his arms and jutting out one sharp hipbone, revealing inches of his tanned, taut belly. Dean winks at his little brother lasciviously; invoking a chorus of jeers and catcalls to swell from the fans he's gathered here. Sam rolls his eyes. 

“It’s Sam,” his little brother snaps rather sassily.

Dean grins but otherwise ignores him. “Heard you’re good. I know you’ll like the challenge.” 

Sam scoffs. “Aren’t you being a little overconfident? What makes you think you’re even a challenge for me?”

Dean chuckles lowly and pushes off the table. “Instinct,” he purrs as the two hot girls hanging on his elbows finally let go and step back. “But don’t worry, I’ll compensate you when you lose.” 

“Who says you’ll win?” Sam sneers, slurring some and shifting uncomfortably like he’s not used to this kind of situation—playing his part well. “And I don’t want your money.” 

Dean smirks darkly. “Who says it’ll be money?” Taunts and jeers rise up again and Dean loves this atmosphere, this suspense.

Sam grips his cue and tilts his head forward, trying to hide his blush. Dean sees it, anyway, knew it would be there and he steps closer, intent on following up with another lewd comment. However, Sam looks up, eyes narrowed, lips twitching into something close to a snarl. “Shut up and let’s play, dick.”

Dean crowds Sam, leaning in close, hot breath ghosting over his little brother’s sharp cheekbone. “I’m not that easy,” he whispers but the crowd somehow manages to hear him anyway and the taunts and leers reach a new level around them. Dean grins wider and turns to the crowd, shrugging. “Or maybe I am,” he admits unabashedly and they laugh.

The scowl Sam sends him is one hundred percent pure Sammy bitchface.

****

A guy around Dean’s height steps up to Sam then, threatening to shoulder between them. Sam glances to him briefly, polite smile in place. “It’s alright, Patrick, thank you,” Sam says softly and doesn’t even bat an eyelash when the guy—Patrick—puts his hand at the small of Sam’s back.

Dean’s smile falls into a frown as he glares at the man who dares lay a hand on his little brother, eyes narrowing, calculating this Patrick guy. Sam sees this and smirks knowingly, the little shit.

“You don’t have to listen to a damn thing this guy says,” Patrick frowns right back at Dean, scowling. Dean grits his teeth at the blatant challenge, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise and chills wrack his body. He was right. This tension is all kinds of hot. Except for the douche bag that has his hands all over Sammy. 

“Maybe we can sweeten the pot, Sammy?” Dean drawls, cutting his eyes to Sam. “Maybe your boyfriend will bet you for a night.”

The dark-haired man who has the hots for Sam growls, suddenly in his space, pushing against Dean’s chest. “Hey, back off, man. Play if you’re gonna play!”

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, man! Christ! Just joking around, Casanova,” Dean sniffs. “Well, you heard your boyfriend. Let’s play,” he goads Sam who stiffly brings out a coin from his pocket so they can flip for who goes first.

They start to play. The entire game is tense for everyone involved—it feels like the whole bar is holding its breath for the outcome. Sam and Dean’s supporters are mocking each other, pushing back and forth. Dean tries to concentrate on the con and ignore the way Sam leans over to make a shot, or the flash of skin around his hips and stomach when he bends over or stretches. Dean tries to ignore the smell of Sam (sweet with a light scent of cologne) that he can make out even in the crowded room. Sam sticks to his persona—young and nervous with shy bravado that the entire bar can see through. Dean also keeps to his persona and makes lewd comments to Sam whenever he can to distract him.

“Already bending over me,” he husks near Sam’s ear the first time he leans over to make a shot. And then louder to the crowd, “I thought this was supposed to be a challenge.”

And like clockwork Sam’s self-proclaimed knight in shining armor comes to his rescue. “Look, man, there doesn’t need to be any of that shit while you play,” Patrick warns.

“What? Am I hurting your boyfriend’s delicate sensibilities?” Dean laughs as the two blondes from earlier press against him once again since it’s Sam’s shot. And at least Sam’s admirer isn’t… handsy or else Dean’s pretty sure that he would have to screw this con and punch the hell out of the bastard. But he seems nice to Sam, a real gentleman, practically worshipping the ground his little brother walks on—following him around with large, hopeful eyes. 

Of course Patrick is definitely a dude and wants to get into Sam’s pants… but he’s also chivalrous about it. It makes Dean throw up in his mouth—just a little bit. He’d almost rather Patrick be a drunk, groping douche bag because then Dean wouldn’t have to worry. But someone nice and thoughtful… those kinds of people always get Sam’s attention. And now that Dean thinks about it, he wonders if Sam actually looked at the male sex before. Dean looks at both sexes—he looks at whatever is beautiful and sexy. But Sam once told him that he wasn’t gay before starting this… thing started between him and Dean—“I’m Dean-sexual”, Sam sometimes jokes with a confident grin and shy eyes. 

Dean wonders if that still stands, if Sam’s tastes have changed. It doesn’t help that Sam just seems to soak up the attention, occasionally throwing sweet dimpled smiles at Patrick and letting his fingers brush the guy’s wrist when he hands Sam yet another beer. 

It pisses part of Dean off, of course. But he knows that Sam isn’t serious about this guy, at least not tonight. Sam’s never been interested in one-night stands. He’s even uncomfortable flirting with strangers. Little Sammy’s playing, Dean just doesn’t know if Sam’s playing with him or Patrick—or both of them. Still, Dean can’t deny how the material of his jeans around his crotch is tightening during this long, drawn out foreplay. Dean teases himself—he teases Sam too, maybe, but mostly he teases himself. He gets close to Sam, close enough to smell him and feel his breath, but he never touches and denies them both. Patrick’s attention towards Sam makes Dean ache with something primal. 

Every time Patrick brushes his body against Sam’s, every time Patrick touches Sam, Dean wants to stalk over and kiss his little brother. He wants to run his hands all over Sam’s body as if to say, see this? This is mine.

He wants to lay Sam out over the pool table, wants to crawl over him in front of this crowd. Not that he ever would do those things. Dean’s an exhibitionist but in the end he’s too covetous of Sam—too proud of that lean body, quick mind, and kind heart that is all his. It’s a terrible conundrum (see, he does know big words) that he has learned to live with. 

He almost groans out loud when he thinks of how this would end. Sam will win—they’d already set that up, Sam sending him a surprised look because he had expected for Dean to take it all. But Sam was clearly the majority favorite and Dean knows that it will be more likely for them to escape unscathed if Sam wins. Dean will throw a little tantrum and stalk out while Sam stays behind for drinks, celebration and promises to come to the next pool tournament on Thursday while Dean dies slowly of sexual frustration alone in the motel room. 

After a few minutes it happens just as Dean predicts. With a brilliant, flourishing move Sam makes a near impossible shot after Dean throws his. The black ball rolls into the corner pocket and for a moment the crowd is silent, like they aren’t sure that it’s over. And then the cheers rise like a flood from Sam’s side, deafening and jubilant. Dean’s crowd, smaller but rougher, roars with the indignity of loss.

Dean doesn’t have time to smirk and the drunken, prideful persona he’s created won’t let him bow out easily. “You little bitch!” Dean shouts, pushing his chest against Sam’s. His little brother has always run hotter than anyone else in their family and when Dean bumps against him the heat from Sam’s body is explosive. “You cheat!” 

“Hey!” Patrick intervenes again, shoving Dean hard until his hip hits the corner of the table painfully. “Cool off, man!” 

“Like hell!” Dean yells and pushes Patrick back, perhaps relishing just a little bit in causing the big flirt some harm. He turns his eyes to Sam, challenging his brother. “You gonna hide behind your boyfriend?” 

“Of course not,” Sam bites out before putting up his hands in a placating gesture. “Look, man, you lost fair, which is more than you deserve, right? Why don’t I buy you a drink?”

Dean barks out a harsh laugh and pushes Patrick back into Sam who catches him but has to stumble back off-balance to do so. “Come on,” he jeers, lip curled. “Is that all I get? I was going to offer you some compensation if you lost. Aren’t you going to give me the same courtesy?” 

“I’m warning you,” Patrick snaps, righting himself on his feet. 

Dean jabs a thumb in Patrick’s direction. “Come on, I can do much better than this redneck.” 

“Now you’re just embarrassing yourself,” Sam scoffs, crossing his arms. Dean leans over, bangs a fist on the table and doesn’t miss the pointed blink from Sammy that translates to stop with the hamming, you loser. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” a big, heavyset man with a shaved head and a collared shirt calls out, obviously the boss. In no time two bouncers about Dean’s height but close to twice his girth (seriously, what do they feed people here in Tennessee?) close in on Dean and start pushing him towards the exit. 

“What the fuck? You can’t do this!” Dean curses, struggles, and rails right up until they throw him out of the door. Another loud cheer erupts after his forced exit. Dean lingers just a moment, catching his breath and trying to hide a smirk. That was… fun. And he’s pretty sure that they made a shit load tonight—possibly more than they ever have when working together. 

A minute later Dean watches as a couple of people from Dean’s crowd trickle out, too disgusted with their loss and damaged pride to stick around. He watches them go and then rights himself from where he’s leaning against the dirty bar wall, dusting off his leather jacket. Dean decides to leave the Impala for Sam and can’t fight the rest of his adrenaline rush with anything else but a wide smile all the way to the motel. 

Back in the bar Sam’s uncomfortable in his own skin, which is riddled with goose bumps despite how hot it is in the establishment. He feels like he’s got a fever—hot skin and chills on the inside. Sam knows that he needs to stick around for at least another hour after the game but he doesn’t think he can wait another five minutes. He can’t stay here when he knows that Dean’s making his way to the motel, might already be there, and he’s waiting for Sam. He’s still half-hard from the tense game, from watching Dean sauntering so gracefully, from watching his big brother’s hands as he played. And the flash of lust in Dean’s eyes every time they came close to touching never failed to go straight to Sam’s own belly, clenching and roiling like he’s on the edge of a cliff and loving every minute of it. 

Also, the tilt of jealousy in Dean’s sharp smile every time Sam interacted with Patrick was too satisfying, too hot for Sam to pass up. And even though strange men even as nice as Patrick bother Sam he let the other man get away with the flirting, just to feel the satisfaction of seeing his big brother jealous. 

Men throw their arms around Sam’s shoulders and bring him shots that Sam surreptitiously hands off to other people. Women flirt with him from afar, not wanting to step on Patrick’s toes and if Sam were in the mood to care (if Dean wasn’t waiting for him at the motel), Sam would marvel at the level of tolerance seen here in this redneck town. Sam tries to stay as long as he can and makes it half an hour laughing and promising to be back on Thursday for the tournament even though he and Dean will be long gone by then. It gets to where every time Sam blinks he sees Dean’s blown pupils on the back of his lids and he knows that he can’t stand this PR for a minute longer. He makes his regretful goodbyes, promising to meet Randy and Joe the next day for drinks. Patrick meets him in the doorway, catching Sam on the way out by his hip. Sam swallows, pushing down the temporary panic and the feeling of his skin crawling. It’s just Patrick, he reminds himself. Patrick who is kind and unobtrusive in his flirting. And Sam is more than capable of taking the other man down if necessary. 

“Patrick,” he says with a small smile, both impatient and nervous.

“Sam,” Patrick is actually blushing, which is sort of endearing. “Look, I-I don’t do this very often.” 

Sam’s inner panic fades at the nervousness of the other man. He smiles and after some debate manages to place his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. For a moment he doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of this without blowing Patrick off and Sam doesn’t have the heart for that—not after he somewhat purposefully led the guy on, or at least didn’t discourage his advances. 

“Yeah,” Sam says rather weakly. He clears his throat and stuffs his hands in his pockets. 

“I, uhm, don’t either…” he trails off, floundering and feeling cornered. “Look, I-” Patrick cuts himself off and runs a hand through his hair. “I can give you my number?” The older man blurts out, wide-eyed.

Sam blinks, stunned. “Wha-?”

But Patrick trips on, awkward, tumbling over his rushed words. “I mean I can give you my number? I think… you didn’t, in the bar, when I, uhm. Yeah. So I’ll give you my number and you can call me later? For dinner?”

“I… I don’t know…” Sam trails off, shifting his weight, hating what a mess this has become. He just wants to leave and wrap up in Dean but probably the nicest guy in the bar is trying to ask him out, all unsure and bashful and it makes Sam feel overwhelmingly guilty to turn him down when it’s Sam’s fault for not deterring Patrick’s advances earlier. 

“Look, no strings attached, OK? I’ll just give you my number and you… can call if you want to do something later and if you don’t… then I understand,” Patrick nods firmly. His hands plunge into his pockets, eventually coming up with a pen that he uses to write his number on the back of a slick receipt from the bar. Sam laughs breathily, in awe of this nice guy. 

Sam’s been hit on a couple of times by arrogant men and then there was him before that. It’s so weird for Sam to have someone besides Dean that’s actually nice and respectful have interest in him. And Sam would dwell on this longer if Dean wasn’t waiting for him in the motel room. So Sam smiles weakly, unable to hide some of the disbelief he feels, and reaches out to accept Patrick’s number, intent on losing it at the first opportunity.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “That’d be… I’ll think about it.”

Patrick beams at him, gives Sam the paper but lets his hand linger over Sam’s, unsure, before he surges forward and kisses Sam sweetly on the corner of his mouth. 

The motion startles Sam and he just barely heads off a violent flinch (he hasn’t liked sudden invasions of his personal space since… he shakes the thought off because not now, Dean is waiting). When Patrick leans back, smiling sheepishly, Sam tries to smile at him but he doesn’t doubt that it comes out strained and uncomfortable. 

“Just… yeah, think about it,” the older man whispers and lightly Patrick squeezes Sam’s hip once before disappearing back inside. Sam doesn’t watch him go. Instead he almost falls flat on his face he makes such a beeline for the Impala that Dean left behind, all of his pockets heavy with the money that they’ve won. 

He drives to the motel; alternatively feeling guilty for hurting Patrick and feeling vindictive because the guy had pushed into Sam’s personal space and had almost set off a chain of memories that Sam had ruthlessly repressed just this morning. Pursing his lips together he works to leave thoughts of Patrick behind with every inch of tar and asphalt that passes beneath the Impala’s wheels. 

All he has to do is think of Dean’s dark smirk and the way his aftershave surrounded Sam when he leaned close during the game and Sam forgets the bar and the people inside for now—maybe for good. Like anyone else in any other of the thousands of towns Sam has gone through in the past. But Dean, the only person who matters, always remains the same. When Sam reaches the motel door his stomach clenches in anticipation. 

It’s crazy how he doesn’t even have the door open yet and desire is already pooling hot under his skin. Hands trembling, Sam moves to unlock the door with the rusted motel key and starts when the door swings open before he can even put the key in the lock. Sam catches a flash of Dean’s face illuminated by the light bulb over the door before his brother’s hand latches into Sam’s shirt and heaves him into the room.

Sam stumbles wide-eyed and surprised. “Dean!” he snaps as Dean takes advantage of his imbalance and swings Sam up against the wall of the room, kicking the door shut even as he presses his body up hot and good against Sam’s. 

Dean promptly suffocates Sam’s indignant protest by slanting his mouth over Sam’s, smooth and easy except for a chapped corner on Dean’s bottom lip. Sam groans into the weight of his brother on him but before Sam can open his mouth to allow access, Dean pulls back. Sam follows him for a second, wanting—needing—more. But when he finds Dean too far to reach Sam’s eyes open (he doesn’t remember closing them) and studies Dean closely.

“Tease,” Sam accuses softly. Dean’s head and shoulders are arched back to prevent more kissing but his hips press hard into Sam’s and his hands are wrapped tight around Sam’s biceps, trapping him between Dean’s body and the wall with such force that Sam realizes he can hardly move. His shirt is almost hanging off of his shoulder, so stretched out from the rough treatment.

“Like you can talk,” Dean smirks, white teeth glowing. “You’re back too early, you know better than that.” Dean reprimands but his mouth carves a wicked smile. The lamp beside the bed is lit golden behind Dean, silhouetting the older brother against the striped wallpaper. It makes it hard for Sam to see Dean’s eyes clearly. 

“Always see your con through,” Dean recites from all of their dad’s lectures.

“Everything’s under control.” Sam says, shrugging minimally and trying to sound casual. 

He groans again, breath ripped away when Dean thrusts up against him. Sam’s cock swells at the friction, straining in his jeans. Sam bites his lip to keep another moan from escaping and misses Dean’s satisfied look. 

“Are you sure, baby boy?” Dean breathes into Sam’s ear. Again, Sam tries to meet his brother’s lips but is denied once again. 

“Y-Yes,” Sam breathes and tries to move against Dean, tries to pull Dean even closer by fisting the hem of Dean’s shirt—the only place he can reach—and tugging. 

“No one suspected anything,” Sam’s pretty sure that’s true. It’s not that the locals were dumb, but they just believed in Sam, trusted him and the innocent card he played. 

“Yeah?” Dean hums and moves so that his thigh is in between Sam’s legs. He rubs Sam’s dick through his jeans, rutting against the seam and zipper painfully good. Sam’s knees weaken and almost give out but Dean holds him tight. 

“What about Patrick? Does he know he was conned the whole night?” Dean’s thigh stops suddenly and Sam groans in frustration, the blood rushing around in his head almost drowning out Dean’s voice. 

Sam tugs on Dean’s shirt again, wiggles against the grip his big brother has on him. Sam’s been waiting for hours to be this close to Dean and Dean’s fucking around and not in the good, mutually beneficial way. Sam’s been dying for Dean since this morning, since the eight-hour car drive, since the diner, since every second in that bar. Sam’s about to die and Dean won’t even kiss him! 

“Please,” he whines, licking his lips and looking at Dean from beneath hooded eyes. Dean tightens his grip on Sam’s arms just to keep himself anchored when Sam’s pink tongue peeks out to lick his dry, bottom lip. 

His little brother pants hard, his body so hot and face flushed. Dean closes in but makes sure to stay just far enough away from Sam’s mouth, teasing his little brother. The lamp behind him illuminates Sam’s face, but when Dean leans in his own shadow falls over his little brother, obscuring him in shadow. 

“Tell me, little brother,” he drawls. “Tell me about Patrick. Nice looking, right? Copped a feel or two of what’s mine tonight, didn’t he?” Dean husks daringly, looking up into Sam’s eyes even though he can’t really make much of them out as they are. “Did he ask you out after I left? Did he try to kiss you? Did you want him to kiss you?” 

Dean asks this mostly in fun, to play, voice rough-shod and jealous. But at the same time he wants to know if any of this is true—if that bastard did come on stronger to Sam after he left—if Sam wanted to try kissing that man. Dean can’t actually go caveman like he wants to sometimes when he sees people eye Sammy up and down too long. If he ever pushed those advances away for Sam—if he ever did the whole “he’s mine” thing like he wants to, he’s pretty sure Sam would knee him in the balls. And probably many other equally gruesome things. …Dean doesn’t really want to think about that right now. Dean bends his left arm so that his forearm is across Sam, barring his brother against the wall. His newly freed right hand falls to Sam’s firm ass, cupping the flesh tightly but otherwise not moving. Sam groans again and his head lolls from side to side against the wall, brown curls falling about his face, some strands already heavy with sweat. 

“No,” Sam gasps, his body throbbing with anticipation and promise. “Didn’t really touch me, Dean,” he promises his big brother.

Dean surrounds him but he won’t fucking move and do something. He keeps teasing Sam, strings him out with no end in sight. “No,” he repeats.

Dean smirks. “He didn’t? That’s not what it looked like. It looked like he wanted to touch you, wanted to run his hands all over you—like he wanted to shove you against that pool table and kiss you until you couldn’t breathe, wanted to prove to everyone in the room that you were his—oh, wait” he chuckles darkly. “That was me,” he leans up and breathes into Sam’s ear, moving his hand to Sam’s waistband and lightly massaging the skin of Sam’s back. 

His middle finger nudges the tender top of Sam’s crack, causing his lover to gasp and try to arch back into the touch. But Dean never dips further down into temptation, content to watch the rapid rise and fall of his little brother’s chest as breath shudders in and out of Sam’s body like a windstorm. Dean goes on carefully. If Sam was being honest then that Patrick guy wasn’t a total douche bag and Dean has to tread carefully. Part of him does resent the other man for touching his little brother, for even looking at Sammy the way he did. But he did seem… nice. The point is that Sam is here with Dean now and obviously not interested in the stranger he met at the bar. Still, if he was nice then Dean needs to be careful not to make Sam feel too guilty about stealing the guy’s money and leading him on tonight because then Sammy’s kind heart would be conflicted and all of the sexual tension Dean’s worked so hard to build up will be for nothing. 

“The things you do to me, Sammy. I bet you don’t even realize,” he muses. “The whole game I couldn’t wait to get my hands on you—couldn’t wait to touch you,” he finishes and feels Sam relax marginally.

“Wanted you to,” Sam murmurs back in a heady whisper. “Couldn’t wait to get out of that place when it was over—couldn’t forget for a second the way you would stand so close but never touched, the way you smelled,” he breathes out tremulously, melting into his big brother’s presence.

“And what about now?” he growls, and starts moving his thigh between Sammy’s legs again, moaning when a sweet shiver wracks his lover’s body. His own cock is aching and heavy, swollen thick and his jeans are so tight he’s seriously beginning to doubt he’ll be able to safely remove them. He loves that Sam still does this to him, still makes his body feel so alive. “What do you want now?”

Sam cries out when Dean snaps his hips hard and unexpectedly, the friction bruising and yet still not enough. Sam strains against Dean’s arm, wanting to kiss his lover, wanting everything he can take from Dean that makes Sam feel so full and good. Dean always makes Sam feel like he’s worth something, especially when Dean kisses him. Sam could break the hold if he really wanted with a simple move that Dean had taught him when he was twelve, but he doesn’t. Instead he tries thrusting his hips to encourage more but he’s still trapped and can only manage an unsatisfying wiggle. With Dean’s forearm holding his chest, the other hand wedged between the wall and Sam’s ass; Sam can at least move his arms now. He reaches up to grasp and pull at the short hair on the back of Dean’s head, while his other hand slips beneath Dean’s shirt and undershirt, fingers ghosting over ribs. He smirks as his big brother moans—loud and as strained as Sam feels. Sam just wants Dean and he’ll take any part of his big brother in anyway Dean wants to give it. Sam wants to show Dean how much he loves him, how much he’s always needed him, just in case…

“I bet no one in that place knew that the entire time I was playing against you I was thinking of how you had me on my hands and knees last night. When they handed me those beers and patted me on the back, they didn’t know that I was thinking of the slow way I rode you this morning.” 

Dean moans again, letting Sammy’s husky, wrecked voice rush through him. He continues moving his thigh lightly against Sam’s clothed dick, not pushing as hard as Sam wants—as he needs, but keeping a steady rhythm. Sam swallows so thickly then that Dean can see the bob of his throat in the dim light. Dean doesn’t have to see the color of Sam’s eyes to feel his gaze burning him like a brand. Sam goes on shakily, voice wavering the more Dean moves his thigh, but he keeps right on teasing, finishing what Dean’s started. 

“I thought about how badly I just wanted to drop to my knees right there and suck you off—how I wanted to take you in so deep I could kiss your balls. I thought about how I would let you fuck my mouth right there.” Christ his little brother is just too hot—too amazing that it sort of steals Dean’s breath away. “I,” Sam licks his lips, looking at Dean through fevered eyes. “I want you to kiss me.” 

Dean complies, surging forward, crashing their lips together. When Sam doesn’t immediately open to him—wary that Dean will pull away again—Dean licks and nips at those soft lips. Sam’s mouth finally opens to him with a content sigh and Dean pushes in, mapping out the hot cavern, tasting remnants of beer and whiskey and the heady sweetness that is Sam. 

Their tongues volley back and forth and the tight hold Sam has on his hair is enough to nearly drive Dean crazy, each tug sending tendrils of pleasure sparking through his veins. Finally, he starts fucking into Sam’s mouth with his tongue and moans when Sam just lets him. Sam grips Dean’s hair and thinks finally. The kiss is aggressive but Sam loves it that way because it feels like Dean loves him so much, needs him so much that he can’t control himself. With Dean so close now Sam can smell him. The leather jacket is off but the scent of it lingers, along with sweat and Dean’s cheap aftershave. With Dean’s mouth moving against his, Sam revels in the sense of safe and love and Dean. Dean can’t get enough of the feel of Sam. 

His finger rubs over Sam’s hole, feeling the muscle quiver and flutter in an endless repetition of promise and disappointment. Dean pulls back from Sam’s mouth, feeling himself harden all that much more when he sees Sam’s parted kiss-swollen lips, bitten red and slick with saliva. 

“Show me, little brother,” he chokes out and begs Sam. “Show me what you wanted to do in that bar.” 

Sam nods but before he moves Dean grips Sam’s shirt and tugs it off, wanting to see more of Sam’s beautiful dark skin. He sees that Sam’s jeans have fallen so low that the ‘v’ of his hips is visible. Dean palms Sam’s clear erection, causing Sam to choke on a gasp and slump against his shoulder. He delves his fingers into Sam’s underwear and tugs on his little brother’s dick, gently pulling until the head of Sam’s cock peeks naughtily over the waistband of his boxer-briefs. He admires his work before nibbling at his lover’s ear, pushing on Sam’s shoulders. 

“Do it, please, Sammy. Need to feel you so much, baby boy.” Sam falls to his knees gracefully and silently. 

He looks up at Dean with swollen lips, flushed cheeks, and bright eyes glazed with lust and Dean can’t take it. He cups the back of Sam’s head and pushes his face into Dean’s denim-clad erection. Sam mouths him and Dean can feel the provocative, moving heat from Sam’s mouth through the two layers of material separating them. The grunt that slips over his tongue is wrecked and borders on a whimper. 

Sensing Dean’s impatience, Sam uses trembling hands to carefully free his brother’s cock, taking the member loosely in his palm. He sucks at Dean’s balls first, taking each in his mouth and fondling them with his tongue, lips massaging the soft, tender skin there. 

Above him Dean can’t decide whether to enjoy the pleasure or growl in frustration because as good as it feels it’s not what he expected, not what he really wants. But then Sam sucks hard at Dean’s crown, swirling his tongue and digging the tip into the slit. The move is so sudden and so perfect Dean feels his knees weaken and threaten to buckle. Sam pulls off with a lewd pop and moves to lick the thick vein on the underside before curling his tongue around Dean’s length, wetting it to ease the way for his mouth and Dean can do nothing but desperately lock his fingers into Sam’s hair and hold on. Sam finally wraps wet lips around Dean and takes his big brother half way in, one hand coming up to massage Dean’s balls as he sucks so hard his cheeks hollow out. Sam eases a little more of him in until Sam’s mouth is stuffed full, lips stretched. Dean feels the muscles in Sam’s throat relaxing and contracting and resists the temptation to move while Sam takes him so far in his little brother’s bottom lip and chin graze Dean’s balls. 

Sam pulls off with a slurp and another pop, looks up at Dean with eyes so blown they look pure black and says, “Now.” 

Dean carefully braces Sam’s head as his lover opens his mouth, tucking away his teeth and relaxing his throat. Dean carefully thrusts in and everything is suddenly so hot and close that Dean trembles with the struggle to restrain himself. They don’t do this often because Sam seems to have an aversion to it and Dean doesn’t like to push when Sam is clearly uncomfortable. Sam usually lets him know when he’s in the mood—when he wants to do this with Dean—for Dean. He pulls out and thrusts slowly in again and hears Sam time his breathing with Dean’s movement. Sam’s just so fucking good at this, though, how can Dean not love it? His lover’s wide lips stretched, cheeks bulging with the most intimate part of Dean’s body, eyes wide and focused on Dean, studying him to see what works and what doesn’t. 

Maybe, if Sam weren’t so damn good at this—didn’t feel so damn good, Dean would like this anyway because he likes having all of Sam’s attention on him. He always has. 

He’s selfish that way. 

“So beautiful, baby boy,” Dean husks out. “So good to me, Sammy.” Sam reaches up and fondles Dean’s balls again before giving them a small tug, signaling that Dean can go faster. Dean takes the invitation and quickens his thrust, fucking into Sam’s throat, rubbing Sam’s lips raw. 

“So damn hot,” he continues and his belly is like fire and he needs just a little bit more so he goes a little harder. “So sexy, baby boy. Everyone wants you, thinks you’re beautiful, but no one else has you but me, little brother,” he gasps with the effort it takes him to speak. “My baby,” he chokes out as his balls tighten and his rhythm stutters but he still feels Sam’s velvet tongue caressing him. “I’m gonna come, baby,” he whispers. “Gonna come.”

Sam grips the back of his thighs and tries to suck in time with his erratic, deep thrusts, telling him that he’s ready. Dean pulls halfway out as he comes and feels Sam’s tongue fluttering around, milking his orgasm as strong arms brace him through it. Dean thrusts shallowly, riding it out, the wet sounds Sam makes with his mouth as he sucks piercing through his pleasured haze and driving him wild. He pulls out and looks down at his baby brother whose lips are even more swollen now. Sam’s cheeks are red with arousal and exertion, his hair falling over in sweaty curls. 

And this is all Dean’s. 

Dean tugs at Sam until he’s standing and they stumble to the bed, leaving a trail of clothes behind them. Sam, delirious with heavy arousal, practically falls on the bed, sprawled out and panting. Dean crawls over Sam and Sam’s hands fly to his shoulders, his grip bruising. 

“God, Dean. God. Do something, please.”

Dean shushes him, running his hand through Sam’s thick, soft hair. He kisses Sam’s forehead and Sam moans in frustration, pushing on Dean and then pulling him closer. “I got you, Sammy,” Dean whispers. “So good to me, baby boy. You’re mine and I got you,” he crawls downwards, exploring Sam’s abs with his tongue, fucking into his belly button. 

Sam moans and pushes on Dean’s head and Dean chuckles into the soft downy hair that trails from Sam’s belly button to the coarser hair around his groin. Sam’s legs jerk at the vibration. He pushes Sam’s legs apart so that his shuddering entrance is exposed. Dean reaches down and circles the rim, presses the pad of his thumb against that tight hole until Sam’s breath hitches and he arches up, moaning Dean’s name. Sam’s so close Dean doesn’t even have to work hard. He wets Sam’s cock with his tongue, worshipping beautiful thighs and hips with his free hand as he rubs his fingers hot against Sam’s entrance. He takes the flushed head into his mouth, sucking hard while he strokes and twists Sam’s dick hard and fast with his hand.

“De—Dean!” Sam babbles as he comes. Dean takes the first spurt and swallows but milks the rest with hand, letting Sam paint his chest and stomach with his own release (Dean likes to see Sam messed up and dirty and Sam’s usually too euphoric to really care). Sam’s hips stutter and fall back and he lets out a sigh as melts sweet and pliant into the mattress. 

Dean licks a scorching stripe through the mess on Sam—he licks all the way up to Sammy’s throat before delving into that mouth, sharing the taste of Sam’s own release. His lover kisses back lazily at first, still a little hazy. 

“Yours,” Sammy eventually gasps out, reaching up and running his hands over the planes of Dean’s back. He grins, sloppily, wrinkling his nose. “Mine,” he declares right before Dean claims his lips again. 

They do that for a long time, just laying and kissing, letting their hands wander. Sam thinks it’s incredibly hot. Love with Dean is explosive, passionate, and mostly aggressive. Sam loves that, loves to know that Dean wants him so bad. But he also loves this, just being close and making out, never able to get enough of each other. Dean rubs his tongue along the top of Sam’s mouth, causing his baby brother to moan and his hips to stutter. Dean cradles the back of Sam’s head with his hands as Sam’s hot mouth trails down, licking Dean’s jaw line before sucking on the pulse point. Dean moans and lets his own hands explore, massaging Sam’s sides and hips, pushing his thumbs in the dip between his inner thighs and groin, knowing that teasing the tender skin there drives Sam crazy. 

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs, awed.

“Love you,” Sammy mouths silently into his skin and Dean feels something deeper than simple desire for Sam trickle through him at the voiceless words.

Dean kisses Sam’s ear, saying “Love you too, Sammy,” clearer than speech ever could. Out loud he murmurs, “You make me crazy.” He pushes away the covers so that they can wiggle beneath them. They kiss again—Sam could kiss Dean for hours, he swears.

He reaches up and runs his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone. “So good to me. So hot and all mine,” he hums, grinning into Dean’s collar bone before looking up through his eyelashes. Dean’s electric green gaze meets him and his big brother smiles softly. 

“Never letting you go,” Sam promises solemnly. “Never letting you let me go, baby boy,” Dean kisses him one more time—a loud and playful smacking one—before moving to turn off the lamp and pawing at the sheets until they’re completely covered. “This should be our vacation,” Dean grumbles and Sam huffs as he shifts further into Dean’s arms, trying his best to disappear into Dean’s skin. 

“Even if we did go on vacation, Cas wouldn’t have left us alone anyway,” Sam points out and Dean laughs, Sam following him and Dean thinks Sam’s laughter is probably the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. Dean’s already drifting off but he thinks that he should fall asleep to the sound of Sam’s laughter more often.

  
****

Sam and Dean were parked in the school parking lot and Sam’s interview for guidance counselor was in eight minutes. Dean tried to remind Sam of the interview. He really did. 

“So good, Baby.” His reminder just got lost in translation. 

Dean was leaning against the door of the driver’s side as Sam straddled his hips. Sam’s long body was pressed against his and without a lot of room for leverage most of Sam’s weight fell on him. They have been kissing for the past few minutes, making out and moving against each other like two teenagers, and still Dean thinks it’ll never be enough. They had been running late due to a late this morning and some bad traffic. They hadn’t even had time to swing by the apartment complex they were staying at before Sam’s interview so Sam had to change into a suit in the car. Dean had smiled crookedly and said in a sultry voice as they pulled into the parking lot that he couldn’t resist “a sharp dressed man”. Except Dean really couldn’t resist Sam in a suit and Sam couldn’t resist Dean unable to resist him. Dean moaned into Sam’s hot, sweet mouth. Yes, it was a terrible, vicious cycle. 

“Mm. Gotta go.” Sam said, barely pulling back enough to speak before falling back into Dean. Sam’s arms were hooked around Dean’s shoulders, his hands at the back of Dean’s head, manhandling Dean in and out of the kisses. 

“Yeah.” Dean gasped. “Don’t think a hard on will help get you hired.”

Sam chuckled breathily against Dean’s jawbone. “It might.”

Dean growled and smacked Sam on his rear, once again claiming his little brother’s mouth in a possessive kiss. “Don’t get any ideas.” Dean said when he pulled back again. He gripped one of Sam’s round ass cheeks in his hand. “This is mine.”

Sam laughed and started slip-sliding open-mouthed kisses down Dean’s jugular.

Dean tried to say “interview” but it came out “God, yes, Sammy.” Dean was just getting really into it when Sam suddenly popped backwards, nearly crushing Dean’s thighs with his weight, sharp knees digging into Dean’s hips and stomach as he flew backwards. 

“Shit!” Sam exclaimed as he scrambled and half fell backwards out of the Impala’s passenger side. “I only have five minutes!” Sam said as he righted himself and started trying to straighten out his suit. He picked up an empty styrofoam cup from one of their drive-thrus that had fallen out with him and chucked it at Dean. “You could have told me!”

And with that Sam breezed off, frantically trying to smooth out his hair and left Dean sprawled out in the Impala with kiss-swollen lips and a dazed, awed _what-did-I-do?_ expression. Belatedly, Dean called after his little brother. “You started it!”

Sam was already almost at the school’s entrance and Dean sighed explosively and let his head thunk against the window. He had to go get the arrangements for the apartment settled and go by and pick up his new uniform from the police department and he was kind of a sap because all he really wanted was to have Sammy in his arms again.

  
***

As Sam approached the school’s entrance he swallowed thickly. The wakening panic which had started in the car and had caused him to maul Dean was returning stronger than ever. God, how stupid was he to think that he could come back here? And how much of a glutton for punishment was he to take a job here? Sam’s steps faltered and stopped as if the ice in his stomach had frozen his legs, too. He was a big boy now and he had Dean and he had faced down demons—he thought he could do this, thought he could finally face his fears but he couldn’t. Sam swallowed and whispered past the tightening in his throat. 

“Cas.” When nothing happened immediately Sam felt his knees weakening. “Castiel, please.”

“Sam?” The deep voice of the angel came from Sam’s right and Sam immediately started to breathe easier. 

“I-I’m fine.” Sam immediately said because the angel had obviously appeared ready to fight. “I just…wanted you here.”

Castiel frowned as he again sensed the panic, confusion, and fear within his young friend. He looked at the building and surmised it was the school where Sam was going to work as part of the cover for the hunt. “I do not understand. When we got here a few minutes ago Dean told me to take a hike when you two started kissing.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and turned to fully regard the angel. “And you…really went hiking?”

Castiel’s brows knit together. “Wasn’t I supposed to?” 

“You went hiking in your trench coat and tax accountant suit?” Sam blinked. “Where did you go?”

Castiel shrugged. “We watched the show about Mt. Everest on the television the other night.”

Sam’s look turned incredulous. “You were hiking Mt. Everest?”

Castiel frowned. “It was not such an ordeal.”

Sam smiled softly. “That’s because you cheated. Humans can’t fly to the summit.” Sam pointed out. His smile fell as he looked at Castiel seriously. “You can’t go in the actual job interview with me, but would you mind staying with me while I’m here?”

Castiel frowned as he expanded his senses for anything supernatural or demonic. He just picked up the ominous atmosphere that he had felt a couple of days ago, but nothing that presented immediate danger to his charge. “Why, Sam?”

Sam sighed. “I don’t have time to explain right now, and I don’t want to explain. So could you just… just come with me, OK? Stay with me, please.” 

And right then Castiel sensed a pain so deep within Samuel that he didn’t argue. All of the Winchesters have pride and independence sewn irrevocably within their characters. In fact, Castiel had only heard “please” from them when they thought a member of their family was in danger. And they never asked Castiel for anything and in fact usually got into more trouble and danger trying to deal with things themselves. But Sam, who was perhaps the proudest of the Winchesters, had swallowed all the things that made him Samuel Winchester in order to ask Castiel for one thing. 

So that was why Castiel didn’t demand to know what was going on, despite that fact that he was sure he needed to know in order to fulfill his duty as a friend and protector. Castile just nodded, serious blue eyes promising Sam anything he demanded. Sam took a deep breath and without another word turned and stepped into the school, his shoulders stiff with tension but some of his fear abated with an angel and friend at his back.

  
***

Dean had time to confirm his own job as the new sheriff in Pike Creek. Ash had erased Dean’s records and the things he couldn’t erase he buried. After that, Ash had created education and career histories for both Sam and Dean. The mullet man had also pushed Dean’s application for sheriff and Dean had already talked to the acting sheriff on the phone on the way to Pike Creek and Dean only had to show up for the formalities of the interview and to pick up his uniform. Sheriff Deputy Wilkins, the acting sheriff, had been so relieved that Dean had showed to help with the workload that he had skipped the interview and had shoved the uniform, badge, gun, and other police necessities along with a packet of information for him to review tonight. Of course, Dean wasn’t planning on reading anything. 

He was going to make Sam read it and give him a summary. Dean figured if he pouted enough and appealed to Sam’s nerd-ego (“But you read so much faster and better than I can”) then either Sam would think that the attempt is cute and give in or his little brother would do the work just to get Dean to shut up. Dean had stamina unparalleled when it came to avoiding work. Now Dean was driving to settle things with a Riley Shields, the owner of the two-bedroom apartment that Dad had arranged for Sam and Dean with his old friend Nathan Schneider.

When Dean pulled up to the place he finally got a hold of Sam. "Hey, Darlin.” Dean drawled and he could hear Sam roll his eyes affectionately. That’s right, Dean’s too cute to resist. 

“Hey, De. Interview worked out OK?”

Dean scoffed. “It lasted about five minutes. Turns out Mrs. Sheriff Deputy Wilkins didn’t appreciate the extra time her husband had to put in at the office. He was very happy to shove off duties to me to get her off his back.” 

“Huh.” Sam mumbled. “That’s…informative.” 

“The man was traumatized, Sam.” Dean gave a weary sigh. “Desperate for conversation that didn’t have nagging in it. I, apparently, look like an impromptu therapist.”

Sam started snickering. “Impromptu?” 

Dean frowned. “Shut up, Sam.” 

“But you said ‘impromptu’.”

“What are you, ten?” Dean grumbles. “I do have some mastery of the English language, you know.”

Sam sounds genuinely surprised when he says, “Really?”

Dean rolled his eyes as he got out of the car and leaned against it, staring up at the darkening sky. “Don’t make me smack you.”

Sam’s silent for a moment. “…Where?”

Dean’s eyes knit in confusion. “Where what?”

“Would you smack me?” Sam’s whisper is low and husky and goes straight past Dean’s defenses and to his cock.

Dean whines and actually stomps his foot (but only a little). “I’ve been begging you for months for phone sex and now you decide to do it when I have to meet the man that’s giving us a place to live!”

Sam laughed and something flips in Dean’s stomach. It’s the familiar desire that Dean usually experiences when he thinks of Sam, but it’s also this unadulterated happiness he gets whenever Sam laughs. Dean thinks that it makes him a little bit of a sap, but it also makes him probably the luckiest man on earth. 

“I keep telling you that it’s hard to have phone sex when we’re always right there with each other and can have real sex anytime.” Sam says with a world-weary sigh before laughing again. “But now’s not a good time, either. Cas is kind of perving in on this conversation, anyway.”

And Dean distinctly hears, “How does phone sex work? And what is ‘perving’?” 

“Woah! Personal space, man!” Sam exclaims.

“Cas is with you? Hey, how’d the interview go? We have access to the students?” 

“Yeah, Cas is here. And, for future reference, don’t say things to him that can be taken literally? He really did go hiking when you told him to.” Dean nods mock-seriously although Sam can’t see him. 

“You’re absolutely right. Next time we let him just watch us make out. He’s been wanting to, anyway.”

Sam snorts. “Don’t encourage him. And I don’t know about the job, I’m supposed to get a call tomorrow.”

Dean hums into the phone. “Where are you now?”

“Grocery store. Getting some food and supplies. I’ll grab dinner, too. Anything in particular?” 

“Chinese.” Dean says immediately. He’s been craving it for a couple of days now. “Look at us being all domestic.” 

“Gross, Dean!” Sam laughs again. 

Dean does too because they are anything but domestic. They decided after they killed Azazel that they would hunt together for a little while longer before even considering the settling down option. It’s not that Dean didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with Sam—he wanted that more than anything—but Dean was worried that Sam would want to go back to school. So they had agreed to hunt for some time but Dean had avoided the subject of after the hunt, despite Sam’s efforts. He just couldn’t face the idea that Sam might leave him. Also, they’ve never lived in one place very long together. 

What if by settling down, by taking away the hunt, then their relationship would become null and void? Dean didn’t like thinking about that so he avoided the topic altogether. Now, however, they take hunting at a more relaxed pace—on the job for a few weeks and then a break for a few weeks. They usually hit the Roadhouse on their vacations, or go places like the beach or the mountains. Sam had been talking about getting a permanent place of their own that could be home base—somewhere near the Roadhouse. Dean was on board with that idea—it was hard having quiet sex in a room that was right between Dad’s room and Ellen’s room. Of course, you had to have sex to have quiet sex. 

Sam was usually pretty hard to seduce when they were staying at the Roadhouse—something ridiculous about everyone finding out about them, scared that their dad, Ellen, Bobby – the people they loved wouldn’t accept them, because they’d fallen in love. Dean didn’t care personally, if someone didn’t accept him and Sammy together after all the crap they’d gone through helping others, well they could go to hell. Dean wasn’t about to apologize for finding love and happiness. 

It had been his idea to slow down, take a break from hunting, both he and Sam had been exhausted, the non-stop hunting had worn them down, and although Cas had hooked them up with another hunt (Dean was still thinking of getting his own back, angel of the lord be damned) but Dean was adamant about resting, setting a slower pace so he and Sam could rest, and have a bit of quality time together. They both liked this new pace. They were always better rested and happier because they weren’t spending so much time in the dark and dead places anymore. Their bickering and fighting had also diminished—but a lot of that was maybe because they had started banging each other (Dean chucked out loud at the thought). Even Castiel got on board with frequent breaks once he figured out that humans needed to sleep and eat in order to refortify their spirits. 

“Would that make Cas our kid?” Dean theorized. 

Sam snorted. “Really gross, Dean.” He repeated. “Shut up and get us a place to live.” 

“Geeze. Love you, too.” Dean pouted. “Need me to pick you up?” 

“No, I’ll hitch a ride on the angel express. Just call us when the coast is clear.” 

“Sure. Hey, Dad said the apartment will have an oven. So get me some pie!” 

“Yeah, yeah. Already got it.” 

“You do love me!” 

“Dean, you’re five minutes late already.” 

“Shit!” Dean exclaimed and pushed off the car and started walking towards the apartment. “Gotta go, love you, Darlin’. Be careful.”

Sam laughed. “Love you.”

Dean hung up as he reached the apartment complex. It was not a huge building and probably only held six apartments at the most. There were about ten steps that led into the main door and Dean took them two at a time with a goofy grin plastered to his face. When he practically exploded in the door, he was met by two pairs of eyes. Quickly, he looked around. There was a small area that passed for a lobby and a door with and opaque glass window that probably served as an office for the landlord. Another set of closed, double doors probably led to the first floor apartments. To Dean’s right there was an elevator and a door marked “stairs”. 

That is all Dean had time to catalogue (except it was hard to ignore the fugly green carpet) his surroundings because the two people standing outside the landlord’s office had spotted him and were smiling at him invitingly. One was a woman in a smart navy blue skirt suit with wavy strawberry blonde hair. She was around Dean’s age and nice in the face but mostly it was her body that attracted his eyes because it was smoking hot. The skirt cupped her ass and the white blouse she wore under her navy jacket was unbutton just enough to reveal a foreshadow of cleavage. Please, God, let her be Riley Shields. Dean prayed. Because with her around not only would Dean have Sam for eye candy (and just candy in general), but he would have another pretty thing to stare and flirt at. Besides, Sam thought it was kind of cute that Dean flirted with others. At least, that’s what Dean thought. Sam never complained about it, anyway. Dean mentally frowned because he realized that he hated it when others flirted with Sam. Was it weird that they had different opinions? Did it mean that Dean cared more about their relationship? Shrugging away those thoughts he took a step closer and broke out in a grin when he recognized the second person as Nathan Schneider. It looked like he had helped them out yet again. 

“Dean!” Nathan greeted with a wide smile. 

“It’s good to see you. Good God, I think you grew taller.” Nathan said as he pulled Dean into a quick hug. “Stronger, too.” He continued as he stepped back. “Bet you give your old man a run for his money, now.”

Dean snorted. “Please, I’ve been beating his ass for years.” He looks past Nathan to the woman, who is smiling patiently at them. Dean smirks when he realizes that her eyes are roving over him.

She meets her eyes and breaks out into a wider, professional smile. “Riley Shields, your new landlady.” She introduces, stepping up with her hand held out. 

“Dean Winchester.” He says with a charming half smirk and she immediately flushes as he takes her hand in his. It’s cute that she blushes, but he also thinks that no one blushes as cute as Sammy. When Sam blushes, his dark cheeks don’t really redden, but the tops of his ears do. He casts a side glance at Nathan as he lets go of her slim, warm hand. “Guess you already know that, though.”

She laughed. “Yes. We’ve had an open apartment for a couple of weeks now and I owed Nathan a favor so we can skip a lot of the formalities and paper work since I trust him. I know it was a sudden move and you can’t afford to be too picky, but while this place is old it’s really nice and clean.”

“Trust me, this place is a five star stay compared to the motel we stayed at last night.” Dean leans in close like he’s confiding in her.

Her slightly freckled face turns a slightly darker shade of pink and her face splits into a beaming smile, genuinely enjoying the attention. “Well, then, I’m happy to help. The room is upstairs. I’m told it’s for you and your brother?”

Dean nods, unable to help the smile that splits his face when he thinks of Sam. “Yeah, Sammy’s applying for a job as guidance counselor at the school. And you’re lookin’ at the new sheriff.” Dean drawls the last part.

Riley clears her throat and shifts her weight. “Wow. You’re a lot better looking than the last sheriff.” She mutters and then her eyes widen and her mouth drops into a small ‘o’ as she realizes that yes, she just said that out loud. “I mean. It looks like you two are going to be big names in this town.” She tries again, her voice strained.

Dean laughs softly, amused at her mortification but liking the smile she had better. “I don’t know if I have to see the apartment.” He begins and she pales because she probably thinks he changed his mind due to her forwardness and he cracks a grin and rushes to reassure her. “You had me with your pretty smile.” 

Riley blinks in surprise and then rolls her eyes. “You’re quite the lady killer, I see.”

Dean feigns surprise. “Is it that obvious?”

Nathan snorts.“I’m surprised it even works.”

Dean basks in the attention and shrugs with a mock-ruefulness. “It never fails. Sometimes I don’t even have to say anything at all and women still love me. It’s a burden I have to live with.”

Nathan laughs gruffly and Riley giggles, and it’s not Sam’s laugh but it makes Dean happy to hear it, anyway. 

“I’m sure.” Riley agrees as she sobers but there’s still a faint pink dusting her nose and cheekbones. “Well, I’m glad you’re ready to move in, but I still think you should see the place before you make any commitments. Follow me?” She said, nodding her head to indicate the stairway.

“Anywhere.” Dean vowed and she laughed again. He rushed ahead of her, opening the heavy metal door for her. “Ladies first.” He said with a happy, boyish beaming. She smiled thankfully and took the first few steps while Dean hung back and admired.

Nathan clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder as the younger man drooled. “If only she knew your less than gentlemanly intentions.” Nathan said under his breath. “You haven’t changed at all.”

Dean grinned unabashedly and moved to follow Riley. “I’m the perfect gentleman.” He scoffed. The room was clean, sparsely furnished, and completely without any weird smells or signs of insects. Dean was sold. 

“It’s yours.” Riley declared. “You just need to sign some papers and pick up your keys downstairs.”

As they walked back down the stairs Nathan filled in the brief silence. “How’s your dad? And your brother?” 

“Dad’s alright, cranky as hell all the time with his legs busted.”

Nathan shot Dean a surprised look Dean raised an eyebrow. “I thought he would have told you when you talked to him, but I guess he wouldn’t.” He said with a shrug. “All three of us were in a car crash almost two years ago now. We barely made it. Both me and Sam were in a coma at one point and Dad almost lost his legs. He still has them and can walk, but not very well.” 

Nathan frowned. “That’s too bad. I’m glad you’re all alive, but your dad is a strong man. I bet he didn’t take the handicap too well.” 

Dean shrugged and swallowed past something hard in his throat. They had all come to accept Dad’s injury, and in fact Dean had gotten to where he hardly even really thought about it. But Nathan was someone who had known Dad in the Marines, when Dad was young and strong. Nathan had known Dad when he was big, strong, fast in his prime as a hunter—though Nathan did not know about the hunting part. It reminded Dean of all his Dad had lost and made him tighten with emotion. 

“He didn’t, he doesn’t still.” Dean said. “But he’s fine, just a little mad that he couldn’t travel anymore and had to settle down. He’s doing good now, though.” 

“And Sam?” 

Dean grinned. “Little brother is doing well. We’ve been on a road trip for the past couple of years, but not we’re thinking of settling down for a little bit.” Dean paused as he remembered their last stay at Pike Creek. “He’s cool, you know? Really smart. Not the drama queen he was in high school.” He threw in as a joke. He remembered that Sam used to be difficult when it came to Nathan and he was trying to reassure the older man that Sam had grown out of that phase. 

“He was a bright kid. I’m glad to hear that he’s doing well.” Was all Nathan said as they reached Riley’s office. “Well, it’s time for me to go. I’ll see you around, Dean.” 

“Hey, man.” Dean says and reaches out to stop Nathan by touching the man’s shoulder. Nathan’s about as tall as Sam, maybe taller—he seemed taller anyway because of how broad he was. He looked like he might even be bulkier than Dean. “Thanks for this; you don’t know what it means.” 

Nathan smiled and his eyes crinkled at the side and left deep rivulets in his face. The wrinkles and a few gray hairs at his temples were the only signs of his age. He held out his hand and Dean grasped it and shook it vigorously, trying to convey his gratitude. “It’s no problem, Dean. It’s what old friends do.”

“Hey, listen, why don’t you come over and we can break this apartment in with a cookout?” He looked to Riley who was shuffling through papers on her desk. “There’s a grill we can use, right?”

She looked up and Dean took just a second to admire the revealed cleavage as she leaned over. “Yeah, there’s a grill and supplies in a storage area out back. I’ll give you a key for you to keep. There are chairs and things in there, too.” 

“Sweet place. I’m in love.” Dean crooks an eyebrow and turns back to Nathan. “What do you say? Not tomorrow cause me and Sam will be moving in and starting our jobs. But we can do it in a couple of days…Friday?”

Nathan broke out into a grin. “Sure, man. I’m not going to turn down a chance to catch up with John’s boys. I’ll bring the beer, OK?” 

“No, man. You’ve done enough.” And Sam’s voice rang in his head: what the hell are you saying? We don’t have a lot of money right now, Dean! 

“It’s alright.” Nathan waved him off with a shrug and Dean didn’t argue any further. He didn’t want to suffer the wrath of Sam’s bitchface later. “See you Friday. Around seven?” 

“S’all good, man.” Dean agreed and clapped Nathan on the back before the older man and waved as Nathan disappeared out the door. Dean had to sign a few papers—probably liabilities and insurance and such, he wasn’t entirely sure because it had been a long drive and a long evening and all he really wanted to do was sleep before he had to pretend to know how to be a sheriff tomorrow. 

When Dean was done he stepped away from the desk and stretch. “This place is going to be great. Thanks for everything, Riley.”

A blonde eyebrow rose playfully as she put a hand on her cocked hip. “Who said we were on a first name basis?” 

Dean pouted at her, consternated like a schoolboy. “Sorry, Ms. Shields.”

She rolled her eyes again and made a sound of displeasure. “Nevermind, Riley’s fine. Don’t call me that anymore, it makes me feel old.” She said as she gathered her purse and keys.

Dean chuckled and held the office door open for her as she turned off the light. “Let me walk you to your car?”

She stopped and blinked at him, this time her eyes were briefly but unmistakably hungry as her gaze rolled over him. “You must be Southern with that knight in shining armor complex.” 

Dean raised an eyebrow, not sure if she was pissed at him or angry-flirting with him. “Kansas, but I haven’t lived there in a while some I’m not sure if it counts.”

She smiled at him. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I’d be happy if you walked me to my car. Just don’t make it a habit.” 

Dean nods seriously. “I know. I’ll make the other tenants jealous.”

She giggled and made her way out the door towards her car with Dean at her side. “So you live somewhere else? This building in your family or something?”

Riley nods. “Yeah. Dad used to run it but he’s sick. I’ve moved him in with me and I took over for him two years ago. I really like it. I’m a little pickier with the tenants than Dad was but it means that this building stays in great shape and I have reliable tenants that respect the property. Everyone here is really great.” She assures him and Dean holds up his hands. 

“Woah, I wasn’t looking for a sales pitch! You already got my down payment, just making conversation.” It’s dark but Dean knows she’s blushing from the slight giggle she makes. He still thinks she’s cute as hell and he wouldn’t mind flirting with her off and on. But it’s getting late and he’s getting a little achey in his back and knees and he just wants his Sammy. 

“Sorry. Guess I am bad at that.” They reach her car, an unimaginative old Jeep Cherokee, maybe a ’97. Dean’s not sure in the dark. 

“Thanks, Dean. It was nice meeting you. I’ll be back around in a couple of days, but feel free to call with questions.” 

“Sounds good. Thanks again, Riley. It was nice meeting you.” 

“Same to you.” She agrees and shakes his offered hand again before slipping into her car. Dean turns and heads back in the building, reaching for his cell phone to call Sam. 

  
***

As soon as Sam parted ways with the school’s principle and administrator, Castiel was by his side again, his measured and calm pace slowing Sam’s determined and quick stride. Sam let out a long breath, trying to get himself to relax. He had felt a lot better as the interview had gone on, closed in the office with two people and Castiel guarding him somewhere outside in the hall. Sam had wanted Dean there and had tried to cling onto the sweet kisses between them in the parking lot. Sam had wanted Dean there and then he hadn’t. 

He didn’t want Dean to see how weak he was, and a part of him would never trust Dean while they were in Pike Creek. When they stepped out into the October night Sam was met with deep, chilly air that breathed up his limbs before delving into his chest and freezing there. The strong scent of chimney smoke was acrid sweet in his nose. Once again and with dread he realized that they were in Pike Creek in that same month that it had all started. Frantically, his mind started whirring, trying desperately to find something else to think about.

He cleared his throat but didn’t look at Castiel. “There’s a grocery store, not too far from here. I’m going to get some stuff for the apartment.”

Then he abruptly turns right and practically starts running in that direction. Cas matches his step slow and steady, again forcing Sam to unconsciously reign in his panic and slow his stride. “You are deeply troubled, Sam.” Castiel observed and Sam flinched only a little at his sudden voice. 

“It is nothing.” Sam replied so fast that Sam himself was surprised. “This hunt is troubling, that’s all. And it does not sit well that we obviously did not finish the job last time and others have paid the price, that’s all.” Sam still refused to look the angel in the eye. If he did, Sam just knew that Castiel would be able to see into his soul right then when all of his defenses were down, when everything was clawing at him. 

“You are lying, my charge.” Castiel observed bluntly, taking care to remind Sam of Castiel’s duty to the young Winchester, his need to understand so that he could protect Sam. For some reason Sam felt intensely comforted with Castiel calling him “charge”. It was Castiel’s duty to protect Sam, his duty to believe Sam—Sam could rely on him. But he wasn’t going to tell Castiel anything, not now, not ever, no one was going to know. 

“I am not.” And wow, was that his petulant, whiny voice? 

“You are.” Castiel insisted steadily.

Sam would not look at him, but Castiel had no problem examining his friend as they walked. Once again, fear and panic were radiating off of Sam, along with a sense of discontent and restlessness—maybe desperation. 

The approaching night did not hinder Castiel’s eyes like it would a human’s and he could see that Sam was a shade paler than usual. Sam normally maintained a healthy, dark hue on his skin—something Dean alternatively complained about because it was unfair that Dean was the only pale one because they lived a primarily night life for weeks at a time and praised because “that tan covers him all over” (Dean had confided this to Castiel a few months ago right before Dean had told Castiel to take a hike for the first time—Castiel had not known what that meant back then so he had passed the time in Jerusalem).

Sam suddenly halted and Castiel stopped as well, standing incredibly close to Sam. Sam resisted the urge to step back, though Castiel was well into his personal space. “Cas.” Sam started and realized that his voice cracked so he cleared his throat and tried again. “You’re right, I am lying.” He admitted. “But I do not want to tell you anything. It’s just…there are some bad memories here.” Sam licked his lips and shifted his weight uncomfortably because it hurt to even admit that much out loud.

Castiel was still looking at him with this half-puzzled and half-determined expression and Sam realized that Castiel did not understand the concept of bad, hurtful memories. If Sam explained, he knew that Castiel would not wish to hurt his charge further and would back off. For a couple of days, anyway. “When someone says they have bad memories, or does not want to talk about something, it means that it’s too painful to talk about.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, feeling his cold it was as it was exposed to the evening chill. “It hurts them. It hurts me.” 

Castiel stared at him for a long time, blue eyes seeming to glow in the twilight. Finally, Castiel sighed, a worried frown tugging at his lips and knitting his brows. “I do not wish to cause you hurt, Sam.” Sam smiled encouragingly, only feeling slight guilt underneath a wave of relief for manipulating the angel. 

“It’s OK, Cas. It feels nice to know that you care.”

Castiel frowns. “Of course I do, I am your friend.” Castiel does consider the Winchester brothers his close friends and had been calling them “friends” for a couple of months now. 

At first they were a burden, something that kept him away from the Heavenly Host and what he felt were more important duties. And then they were exhausting when Castiel did not understand human customs and mannerisms and they always seemed to want to throw their lives away on the hunt seemingly to make Castiel miserable. Finally he started to respect them as he gradually opened his eyes to the way other humans lived and realized the extent of the sacrifice that the Winchesters offered every day to save people often without gratitude. It was at this time that Castiel realized that the brothers in part sacrificed their souls in order to save others. Darkness and hopelessness constantly pressed in on them, only dammed away by the incredible and pure love and devotion they held for each other. 

Still, some taint was inevitable, and that was when Castiel realized that he not only had to protect Sam and Dean from demons and death until Heaven commanded otherwise, but he also had to protect their souls from the incredible burden and pain that hunting inflicted on them. 

That was how respect turned to admiration and devotion. And when he realized that Sam and Dean joked and teased him like they did their father, Ellen, Jo, and Bobby then Castiel started to take his questions and curiosities about the world to the brothers, trusting them to help him. And sometime after than Castiel realized that the brothers trusted him and considered him a friend and Castiel considered them friends, too. Castiel loved Sam and Dean Winchester. Sam couldn’t help but feel loved and protected when he saw devotion and loyalty flash across Castiel’s face. 

“I know you do. Thanks, Cas, for trying to help. But I do not want to talk about it.”

Castiel gave Sam a measured gaze. “I will comply with your wishes.” He agreed. “However, if I feel that whatever this is will seriously compromise your health I will not hesitate to intervene.”

Sam couldn’t decide between relief, fear, or anger and Castiel’s warning so he settled for nodding seriously. They stand awkwardly for a few more seconds before Sam starts walking again. “You coming with me to the grocery store?” He asks and hopes that Castiel will say yes (Sam’s not ready to be alone yet) at the same time he knows that Castiel will say yes because the angel is fascinated with stores of any kind. 

“Yes.” Castiel agrees and Sam can’t mistake the lighter pitch in the angel’s voice that means he is excited. Castiel has an endless fascination with shopping and stores and will spend hours in them if Sam and Dean let him. Castiel likes the magazine racks because there are so many pictures that help him see the world and yet it has a lot of words like the books that Sam let him borrow. The angel is also easily mesmerized by the sheer quantity of stuff in stores. He could stare at a shelf filled with school supplies—pens and papers and notebooks of all shapes and sizes and colors and marvel at how ink and paper and the ability to write in order to do something with them was so rare the last time he had come to the mortal world. Castiel was also awed by the endless supply of packaged foods.

“Famine used to be so common.” He had murmured when Sam had explained the concept of food stores to the angel. 

A few minutes into the grocery store trip and Sam was fairly proud of himself for pretending to be oblivious to Castiel’s open gawking and grabby hands. The angel liked to touch everything (and he must have found the foil potato chip bags especially fascinating because he wouldn’t let go of them). 

In fact, Castiel’s antics were quickly burgeoning Sam’s resolve and he was more able to push back the bad memories and the pain that had threatened to overwhelm him when he had first entered the school. They were on the cereal aisle and Sam was debating between Lucky Charms and Cinnamon Toast Crunch (Dean hated cinnamon, though) and trying to calculate how much money he could spend on this trip to see if he could get both when Castiel turned from his contemplation of gummy fruit snacks (“Sam, what does ‘gummy’ mean?”) with a look of upmost seriousness. 

“Sam, I have a question.”

Sam just barely restrained a groan of dread. “What is it?” He invited with a patient voice, instead. 

“How come I do not refer to you and Dean by pet names?” Sam had a feeling that the angel wasn’t through with that topic. 

“You just don’t. It’s not like you have to call us by anything else other than our names.”

Castiel frowned. “But you are my friends and I would like to show it. You said you show friendship and love through these pet names, right?” It was a strange request but Sam couldn’t help but feel a little warmth on his cheeks. It was pretty breath-taking when an angel of the Lord cared about Sam and Dean enough to want to try something human like pet names just to show his affection. Sam furrowed his eyebrows in thought.

“Well. Both Dean and Dad call me Sammy. I don’t usually like other people to call me that, but I guess you can give it a try.” 

Castiel nodded seriously, licked his lips, and concentrated like he about to perform some serious angel mojo. “Sammy.”

“Sammy” sounded incredibly weird in a voice that wasn’t Dad’s or Dean’s. Castiel’s voice was deep and usually stoic and “Sammy” sounded mechanical and almost mean. Sam frowned as he put both Lucky Charms and Cinnamon Toast Crunch in his cart. “I don’t know. Try it in a sentence.”

Castiel frowned again in concentration. “I am using your pet name in a sentence, Sammy.” Castiel paused, obviously mulling it over while Sam wrinkled his nose in displeasure. “I do not think I like it. ‘Sammy’ does not feel natural.” 

“It doesn’t sound natural, either.” Sam was quick to retort as his shoulders sagged in relief. 

He hadn’t liked it but he had been afraid that he couldn’t have said that he didn’t like it to Castiel who was trying so hard. The expression on the angel’s face could only be described as a pout. Castiel was growing increasingly disappointed and maybe a little frustrated. 

“Well, that’s OK, I don’t like Bobby calling me Sammy, either. Let’s try something else.” Sam tried to sound positive as he turned the cart into the canned goods aisle. 

“Idjit.” Castiel deadpanned and Sam stumbled in surprise.

He turned to look at Castiel over his shoulder with wide, stunned eyes. “W-What did you just say?” Sam whispered.

Big, blue eyes blinked innocently at him. “I was trying Bobby’s pet name for you. Didn’t you say it was a pet name?”

Sam had to try a few times to get his voice and mouth to work at the same time because Cas had just said ‘idjit’! “W-Well, it’s a complicated pet name.” Sam tried to explain. “Because ‘idjit’ means ‘idiot’ or ‘fool’ and Bobby really is calling us idiots but he just means it in the nicest way possible…most of the time.” Sam pulled to a stop in front of the shelves of Spaghetti-Os and Chef Boyardees. He propped one foot on one of the cart’s wheels as he studied the different flavors. What kind did Dean hate, again? Cheeseburger? Or was it the pizza flavor? 

“So, maybe that one’s not a good idea.” Castiel huffed but seemed alright with the rejection, probably because he didn’t like it much either. “I think I will reserve the right to use ‘idjit’ every once in awhile.” Before Sam can ask why he sees that the angel’s lips are twitching in something like a smirk. “I rather enjoy the reaction I got when I used Bobby’s complicated pet name unexpectedly.”

Oh God, Sam mentally lamented. Castiel was beginning to grasp the concept of teasing.

Deciding to redirect the angel’s attention, Sam tried a suggestion. “Well, earlier, you called me ‘my charge’.” Sam pointed out. He hadn’t wanted to, afraid to remind Castiel about the can of worms the angel was trying so hard to get Sam to open earlier.

Castiel nodded. “Because you are my charge.” 

“Well, maybe you should try that as a pet name?”

Castiel tilted his head in thought. “I would not think you or Dean would like that.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and finally decided that he couldn’t go wrong with “beefaroni” and started to move on. “Why’s that?” 

“Well, ‘charge’ would imply that you are my duty. You and your brother are too proud to admit that you need protecting. Also, I do not wish for you to think that you are no more than a responsibility for me, which is why I asked about a pet name.” 

Sam stopped to study the angel, completely awed once again at the thought Castiel had put into this. Sam couldn’t help but smiled widely at his friend. Castiel was a little surprised but very pleased to see Sam smile genuinely for the first time in the past few hours. Castiel was even more pleased when he realized that he was the one that had soothed whatever hurt Sam was suffering earlier. A feeling of intense satisfaction and fulfillment washed over the angel then.

Sam looked around to make sure no one was near to hear him before talking in a quiet voice. “Cas. We know that you don’t think of us as just a responsibility or duty anymore, and that’s exactly why ‘my charge’ would be a good pet name.” Sam licked his lips and tried to think of a way to explain. “You’re an angel, Cas. You’re so much older, wiser, more powerful than us and yet you care about us heart, mind, and soul.” Oh God, he was about to get girly and he was kind of glad Dean wasn’t here to poke fun at him. However, with Castiel’s recent questions he wanted to make sure the angel understood this. “You’ve saved our lives, you’ve brought us back from the dead—and that’s great and everything—but me and Dean have come to actually need you as a friend.”

Castiel’s eyes were wide with awe and not for the first time when he was with the angel Sam was acutely aware of the immensity of everything around him. 

“When you call us ‘charge’, it reminds us—well, it reminded me—how much I need you as a friend and how much I’m thankful that I have you as a friend and a protector. Me and Dean are kind of too proud to admit that you protect us, but you guard us from much more than demons.” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that it reassured me of your devotion as a friend and guardian when you called me ‘charge’ earlier.”

Castiel broke into an actual smile and Sam couldn’t help but return it, shaking off the little tremors he got when he had to talk too much about his feelings. “Thank you, my charge.” Castiel says reverently and Sam again feels a peace fall over him. 

“Also,” Sam adds as he starts walking again, the freezer section in mind. “I think ‘friend’ would also serve as a good pet name from you.” 

“My friend.” Castiel tests out loud and smiles almost boyishly.

That’s when Dean calls and Sam automatically sort of melts at the sound of his big brother’s voice. He mechanically continues his shopping during the conversation and laughs because at the same time Dean theorizes that Castiel like their kid Sam is watching the angel still holding a foil bag of potato chips and occasionally crinkling the bag just to make noise in one hand while he contemplates the texture and density of a bag of marshmallows in the other hand. 

When Sam hangs up he can’t even get a breath in before Castiel’s all over him. “What is phone sex?” 

Sam mock-sighs because he knew it was coming and he’s in too good of a mood now to really care or to be embarrassed by the question. He picks up a case of beer and heads toward the check out as he formulates an answer. “Well, when people are separated and can’t be with each other, sometimes they have…sex with words. They talk through the act of sex with each other.” 

And phone sex sounded incredibly awkward and clinical now that Sam had explained it like that. Castiel seemed to stew over it as they reached a cashier and that’s when Sam realized that he was trying to get a job here in this relatively close-knit town and a cashier did not need to hear him talking about phone sex with another man. He prayed that Castiel didn’t say anything else and couldn’t pay for the groceries fast enough. It was a small mercy that Castiel waited until they were three steps from the cashier to continue. 

“But why have word sex?”

Sam blinks and thinks to himself why, indeed? But he tries to answer, anyway. “Well, I guess it’s because they miss each other because they’re apart and it’s one way to make them feel like the distance isn’t so great.” And then Sam thinks of Dean. “And then some people just think phone sex is hot.” 

“Hot?” The angel parrots and didn’t Sam just walk right into that one?

Sam flushes though the mid-fifty weather hits him in a blast as he exits the store. “Uhm, you know? Aroused?” And then before Castiel has a chance to ask anything else he changes the subject (let Dean handle any more questions about phone sex). “I need to get some bed clothes and then I’m going to pick up some dinner. You want to tag along, Cas?” 

Castiel’s eyes are bright with mirth when he says, “Of course, my friend.” About ten minutes later they were waiting for Sam and Dean’s order in a diner’s booth. It was only a little awkward with both of their arms full of groceries, sheets, and a comforter. By this time Sam was just tired from the long car trip, the interview, and the near-emotional breakdown and was just ready to eat and go to bed. 

“You do not call Dean a pet name.” Castiel observed suddenly and Sam blinked at him. 

“I guess ‘De’ would count as a pet name?” Sam supplies. 

“He calls you many pet names.” Castiel corrected. “And you do not call him other things.”

Sam shrugged. “I guess I haven’t thought about it.” Which was true. Sam really secretly loved the little nicknames Dean bestowed on him. They were said with such reverence and love that Sam always felt special and cared for.

“My vessel used to call his wife ‘sugar bottom’.” Castiel pointed out with all intentions of helping Sam. “Maybe you could borrow it?” 

Sam chuckled. “I don’t think Dean would like that. I don’t think I like it.” But he was game for more suggestions. It was interesting to hear Castiel talk about his vessel, Jimmy Novak. 

“My vessel’s grandmother called him ‘honeypie’.” 

Sam hummed and tapped his chin though the bags rattled with the movement. “Dean does like pie.” Sam agrees but only half considers it as something to use to get on Dean’s nerves. 

Castiel feels encouraged by Sam’s response and is delighted to help out his friend. “Jimmy’s wife sometimes called him ‘dear one’.” Sam did kind of like that one, actually. Castiel went on, his brows furrowed a little in confusion. “Actually, sometimes she called him ‘sea biscuit’, which I don’t understand.” 

Sam paled rapidly because he couldn’t help the mental image. “Uhm. Thanks, Cas.” He rushed to intercept any more help, as… thoughtful and entertaining as it was. “I don’t know. I guess… Dean has always been everything to me, you know? As a brother before and as a lover now. I just feel that any other name wouldn’t be enough.” He trails off with a sheepish shrug and ducks his head so the angel can’t see the small blush on his cheeks and the goofy grin threatening to split his face in two.

Castiel nods, but his face still thoughtful. “What about ‘love’? Surely even Dean’s name isn’t greater than love.” 

Sam laughs not because it’s funny but because it’s perfect. “It’s a good idea.” He admits. Dean calls just when they get the food piled into their already full hands and with Castiel’s help they’re in the apartment just as Dean slides the key in the lock. Dean grins so wide when he sees Sam that the skin next to his eyes crinkles in the way that makes Sam’s stomach flutter. Dean eases some of the bags out of Sam’s hands at the same time he places a kiss at the corner of Sam’s mouth. 

Castiel leaves soon after the brothers eat and it’s not long before they collapsed into bed together. Sam’s in drawstring sweats and Dean’s in his boxers and he snakes around in the sheets and makes exaggerated sighs of contentment. Sam lays on his side, his head propped up in his hand as he watches his big brother twist and turn in the sheets. When Dean finally stops he’s burrowed in a mess of sheets and pillows and staring up at Sam with wide eyes and the little-boy grin that Sam loves. 

“Satin sheets, Sammy!” He practically crows. “Black satin sheets!” 

Sam smiles down at him and Dean finds himself falling in love with Sam’s dimples all over again. “Knew you would like them.” And Sam kind of likes how the material is cool, soft, and slippery, too. Dean is a little more simple. He likes his black leather jacket, he likes his black Impala, and he likes black sheets.

Dean turns to his side and pulls Sam until they are chest to chest and nose to nose. “I love them. I love you in them.” Dean says freely as he leans back and turns off the small, cheap nightstand lamp. When he turns back to face Sam he’s met with a tender kiss instead. Dean feels them both melt into the sheets and closer to each other as they kiss. When they break apart Sam buries his forehead in Dean’s clavicle, the rest of his head cradled in the crook of Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean cushions his chin in Sam’s curls and slides an arm around his little brother, running his hand up and down Sam’s strong back and to his small waist twice before settling. Dean loved that he could hold Sam like this. It made Dean feel needed and loved, and it made him feel reassured that he could know Sam was safe and there and never leaving if he was there in Dean’s arms.

“Night, Sammy.” He feels Sam smile into his skin. 

“G’night, Love.” Dean lies awake a few minutes after Sam falls asleep, grinning into the dark. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of the co-written chapters, so you'll start to see a slight change in tone and writing as I incorporated my style with Insertcode11's.

Pike Creek 2000

Dad had already left for work by the time Sam got up. He worked at the town’s biggest garage, a job Coach Schneider had arranged by calling in a favor from the owner. They had been short a mechanic for a couple of weeks and work was beginning to back up, so Mr. Gibbs had jumped at the opportunity to hire an experienced mechanic. 

He wrinkled his nose, remembering Coach Schneider bragging about getting Dad the job. He emphasized that the garage owner owed him and subtly implied that Dad did as well. Sam knew how things worked, how his Dad worked. If he could, Dad would do anything for Nathan because he was Dad’s friend and he owed him a favor. He didn’t have to be reminded. 

Sam rolled his eyes and pulled out the Lucky Charms and a carton of milk for breakfast. He rinsed the coffee pot and measured out the water and grounds needed to brew Dean a “good morning”, flicking the switch to set the machine in motion. He set out bowls and spoons, placing a mug next to the percolating coffee pot because Dean bitched at him last time when he had rummage through the cupboards to find one on his own. He plopped into one of the kitchen chairs and poured cereal into his bowl. 

Propping his head in his hand, he stared at the milk sodden, multi-hued marshmallows, spoon pushing them around and turning the milk an unattractive purple color. He sighed and looked around the kitchen, eyes cataloguing the differences between this place and their usual haunts. No mold in the corners, no insect or rodent droppings, working appliances. It was their equivalent of a five star hotel and he really should be more grateful. He was being unfair towards Schneider. He was loud-mouthed and without a sense of propriety, but so was Dean. Sam smirked to himself. 

He wiggled his toes, the icy linoleum floor seeping through the threadbare soles of his socks. Dad had said that they couldn’t turn on the heat because they didn’t have enough money to pay the power bill. It wasn’t so bad. They had stayed in dives without the option of heating and in places that weren’t even properly sealed so he could handle chilly feet. He pulled them up from the floor and sat cross legged in the seat, tucking them under his thighs. He finished the last few bites of his breakfast to the prickly sensation of warmth creeping back into his cold feet. 

After Sam, Dean, and John had completed their five o’clock run that morning, the younger Winchesters had come back and fallen asleep again while John showered and left for work. It was now 7:30 and homeroom was in forty-five minutes and Dean had to clock in at 8:00 at the gas station. Sam eased into Dean’s room. His big brother was passed out, one leg thrown out and hanging off the side of the bed, sheets and blankets tossed every which way. One arm was shoved under the pillow, ready to grab the gun he had under there. 

“Dean.” Sam said softly but firmly, transmitting his presence from afar so Dean wouldn’t pull the gun on him. Dean grunted and shifted in acknowledgement, his hand twitching from beneath the pillow, but his breaths evened out again.

Not too long ago Dean was the one that dragged himself out of bed to fix breakfast and get Sam ready for school. It was around the middle of Sam’s freshman year that he realized he was usually awake before Dean and either dozed or read while waiting for Dean to come get him. Dean wasn’t a morning person so Sam had decided that if he was going to be up anyway he could get the morning started for them. He learned quickly that Dean was more receptive to mornings if he got a little extra sleep and had coffee waiting for him when he got up. 

Sam decided that he wouldn’t do an obnoxious wake-up call this morning (though he should for payback for the years of torment he suffered at Dean’s hands). Besides, Dean tended to be less grumpy if he wasn’t startled awake and he was generally more mellow in the mornings.

So, okay, he wasn’t going to be nice to Dean out of the goodness of his heart—he just really wanted to ask Dean about the basketball team. 

He sat on the edge of Dean’s bed and gently placed his hand on Dean’s back. Over the past year or two in school he had noticed that guys his and Dean’s ages didn’t touch each other as much as he and his brother did. Shoulder bumps and slaps on the back were all that were “socially acceptable” for guys at school. He and Dean did that, too, but just as often they shared touches like what they were doing now. Sam was rubbing his big brother’s back and easing him awake. Sometimes in the motels they stayed in when they lay together watching TV Dean would reach over and run his hands through Sam’s hair like he used to when Sam was little. Sometimes when they sat on opposite ends of the couch, their legs curled up on the cushion between them, they would entangle their feet—mostly because Dean’s feet were always freezing and he would tuck them under Sam’s feet or calves. It was natural to touch Dean all the time. Sam couldn’t imagine a life of not being able to hold on to him or touch him and realize that Dean was real and not going to leave Sam like Mom did… like Dad does. 

“C’mon, De.” Sam murmured soft but firm. “You gotta go to work.” Dean grunted, shifting again, and Sam patted him a little on the shoulder. “You gotta eat and get ready. Wake up, Dean.” 

Dean sighed into the pillow. “Dumbass gas station.” He groused and tried to bury himself deeper into the bed, arms circling the pillow to hug it to closer. 

“Okay. Not the most dignifying job, but you won’t have to worry about it anymore if you show up late.” 

“Good.” Dean grumbled with finality. 

“Hey, it’s alright. Winter’s comin’ and we only need to be able to pay the power bill so we won’t freeze to death.” Dean groaned. “Townspeople go through the gas station every day so it’s a good place to get information about the hunt.” He groaned louder and Sam smiled, continuing. “And we can just eat canned beans and vegetables for meals. After all, hard to afford burgers and take out without money, but I’m sure we can manage.” 

“Hate you.”   
  
Sam grinned and flicked Dean’s ear. “I’m your favorite little brother.”

“You’re my only little brother.” 

“If you had more, I’d still be your favorite.” 

Dean let out something like a cry of pain. “Fine. I’ll go to work at the fuckin’ station. Just shut up, please,” he begged. 

Sam stood up, smirking. “Yes, Dean” he said dutifully and pulled out a change of clothes for after Dean’s shower. “Coffee’s ready,” he informed and then left the room. 

Ten minutes later Dean stumbled out fully showered and dressed but bleary-eyed. He chugged a whole cup of coffee before pouring another and sitting down to a bowl of cereal. 

“How was school? Forgot to ask last night.” Dean started, milk dribbling down his chin as he talked with his mouth full. 

Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust at him. “It was good, actually.” 

“Yeah? Kids didn’t give you any problems?” Both Dean and Sam had suffered through bullies in other schools. Bullies didn’t actually do much bodily harm to either of them since they could defend themselves, but being the new kid, showing up in the middle of the school year with threadbare Salvation Army clothes that were sometimes a decade out of style, caused some students to shun them or cruelly tease them. 

“No. Guess its cause I’m taller.” Sam said with a shrug and Dean just nodded because he had experienced the same thing. Growth spurts were miraculous things. Bullies tended to leave you alone when you towered over them. 

Dean smirked devilishly—or as devilishly as he could with a milk-soaked chin – and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Yeah, man, you’re gonna be a Sasquatch if you don’t stop growin’. Bet the girls like how tall you are, though.” 

Sam unexpectedly blushed and Dean raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t! You’ve got a girl already, don’t you?” He beamed with pride. 

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat but couldn’t help the cocky, confident grin. “Yeah, guess so.” He admitted with a shrug that he hoped came across as nonchalant.   
  
“Dude! This is awesome! What’s her name? She hot?” Dean fired off and sipped at his second cup of coffee. 

“Her name’s April. She’s pretty hot.” Sam shrugged. “She’s in my math class and she’s part of the drama club.” 

Dean’s look turned appreciative. “You aim high. Those hot geeks don’t put out for just anyone, dude. They want a relationship.” Dean shuddered at the word as if just saying it out loud was poison. 

Sam got up and dumped Dean’s bowl in the sink on his way to pour himself another half a cup since they had a couple of more minutes before they both had to leave. “It’s all right. I mean, I think I rather have that, anyway.” He trailed off, not wanting to open himself up for teasing by saying that he doesn’t like the idea of sleeping around because he couldn’t build a connection. Also, he didn’t want to inadvertently insult Dean; although, his big brother was rather proud of his long line of one night stands and exploits in casual sex across America. 

Dean nodded but moved on. “Everything else okay? Are you behind in your classes? Dad probably needs you to get started on some of the research leg work. You know, possibilities, local ghost stories, that kind of thing.” 

What Dean was asking was if school was going to get in the way of the hunt. “Most of it’s a repeat from the last school.” Sam said. “So, nothing to catch up on. So far the work load is light.” 

Dean nodded approvingly. “Oh, how about Nathan? He’s your gym coach, right? He cool?” 

Sam was momentarily thrown by the specific question. “Yeah, he’s cool. He just lets us play basketball most of the time. From what I can tell we don’t have any written tests on sports history like the last school.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Good. That last guy was psycho to do that. I mean its gym. It’s the saving grace class for most students.”

Sam chuckled. “Actually, I made a lot of friends with the basketball players in that class.” He figured it was as good as a segue as any, but Dean was already frowning and shaking his head. 

“Dude, I said no sports or clubs right now.” He got up and washed out his mug. Leaning against the counter, he crossed his arms and gave Sam a sympathetic look. “Look, things are too hot right now. We need you to help research. Nathan knows Dad but doesn’t know about hunting, so we have to use our real names in this town. That means we can’t get by on fake credit cards so me and Dad have to work. I know it sucks, but we’ll do the talking to people and we need you to help with the research.”

“But, practice would be over at 5:00. I could go the library then and still get research in.” Sam reasoned. 

“Sam.” It wasn’t a shout or a snap, but it wasn’t the kindest tone of voice either. “Dad said no so just obey him, okay?” 

Sam bit his lip to keep from saying that Dad could have told him to his face instead of making Dean be his messenger. 

“You know this hunt is important, Sam.” Dean’s face was harder, like he was working himself up. 

Sam stood up abruptly, eyes wide. “I know this is an important hunt, Dean! I know, okay?”

Dean’s lips thinned and he crossed his arms. “I’m just saying. Just once Dad needs you to focus.” 

Sam barked out a laugh even as he felt his chest rend from his body and his throat tighten. “Dad? Dad’s not here, Dean. So either you’ve been discussing me without me or this is something you want to say to me, so say it!” 

“Fine! Okay!” Dean shouted and took a breath. “Me and Dad talked and we think that you need to concentrate more on the hunt this time around. It’s just for now, man.”

Sam clenched his jaw and just got more pissed off at the placating tone in Dean’s voice. Sam didn’t even know where to start there was so much wrong with this conversation. “Just for now? Is it the same just for now Dad used after Mom’s death? The just for now that means he’s only been around for five out of sixteen Christmases? Is it the same just for now Dad told you that left you with a GED?” 

For a moment Dean looked like he had been slapped then his brows furrowed and his lip curled and he growled. “Shut up, Sam!”

“Why? Because I have an opinion?”

“My God, can’t you go one day without being so overdramatic!” 

Sam stalked over to the door and picked up his back pack from the floor. “I’m not being overdramatic. You’re being an asshole. So is Dad!”

Dean took a step towards Sam, furious. “Watch your mouth, Sam.” 

“Or what, Dean?” Sam reached for the door knob. 

“Just… don’t do the basketball thing. And start research today after school.” Dean sounded weary behind him and Sam thought he had no right to sound like that. 

“I’ll pencil it in.” Sam snapped. By the time he exited the house he was so tired that he didn’t even slam the door. 

Sam felt how thin the soles of his shoes were against the cold sidewalk as he trudged to the bus stop. His heart was hammering and his stomach felt stretched and twisted. He swallowed hard, trying to swallow past all of the static in his head. 

Sam was always amazed at how fast things blew up in their family. He knew a lot of it was due to their complete lack of communication. Sam hated not knowing. He hated it and let his Dad know but that didn’t mean he hated Dad or his family.

The bus arrived with a whine and smog of diesel exhaust. There was no heating and Sam felt the chilled leather seat bite at him through his clothes 

He liked hunting in a way. He liked the puzzles and saving people, but he hated the possibility of losing the only two people he had in the world. Every time Sam tried to talk about it, Dad shut him down and Dean always thought Sam was insulting Dean personally. Neither understood that when they went on hunts, red taillights fading in the distance leaving Sam behind, the fear that they wouldn’t return hurt like a mortal wound. They were all Sam had left and he couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to them.

Sam frowned as his body rocked and swayed with the shuddering bus. Dad and Dean were overprotective, but, like everything else in their lives, the hunt and Mom’s death seemed to have tainted that drive. They micromanaged Sam’s life, watching his steps, judging him, measuring him, training him, molding him all in the name of protecting him. A person could suffocate under that kind of intense focus.

As they pulled up to the school, he frantically tried to push everything back. He couldn’t handle it on top of the possibility that Mom’s killer might be in this town. Sam suppressed the sudden urge to throw up as he stepped off the bus. He couldn’t be this upset now, too much was riding on him. Dean always pushed anything that was bothering him aside in order to get the job done. Sam swallowed and decided that if Dean could be that strong then he could, too. By the time he was at the school’s entrance he had shoved all of his thoughts about the argument away and was already thinking of going to the computer lab during his free period to start research on fire monsters.

Mac practically plowed into Sam before he was even in homeroom. His pale, gangly arm slung over Sam’s shoulders, the contact making Sam stiffen and pale with tension. 

“Hey, Sam!” Mac’s brows furrowed. “Man, are you a1l right?” 

Sam cleared his throat and rolled his eyes, trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah, it’s fine. I got into a fight with my brother this morning. That’s all. He can be an ass when he wants to be.” He declared, throwing on a smile. 

Mac’s face was instantly relieved. “Sorry, man. But that’s how siblings are. Or, well, I think so anyway since I don’t have any. I do have this snobby older cousin that lives across the street from us, though.” Mac rambled on as he dragged Sam to a seat next to him, oblivious to the quieting room until the teacher, Mrs. Milford, snapped at him. 

Two periods later April shouldered up to him at his locker. She was prettier than he remembered and he felt like such a pansy even thinking that. She smiled up at him, a faint blush on her face. “Hey, Sam. Finding everything easier today?” 

“So far.” He half smirked. “Did you do your math homework?” Lame! He berated himself mentally. Dean’s voice was saying that only friends talk about homework and Sam didn’t want to be in the friend category. 

She laughed like she heard his thoughts. “I did it, but it’s probably terrible. I told you I need a tutor.” She coyly looked him up and down. 

Sam laughed, too, startled by her boldness. “Anytime,” he promised and turned to switch out his books. 

“Are…Are you okay?” Her voice lacked its usual confidence. 

“Yeah?” Sam wasn’t sure what she’s looking for and sensed more than saw her shift her weight from foot to foot. 

“Okay!” She blurted, blushing when she realized how loud she was. “Well,” she amended. “It’s just that Mac said you looked kind of down this morning and I just wanted to check and make sure you’re doing okay because it’s a new school and everything and yeah we just met yesterday but we’re friends, right? And—“

Sam put his hand on her forearm and April looked up into a wide grin, dimples turned on full force. 

“Thanks.” Sam said softly and genuinely. “Really. But it was just a normal argument with my brother.” Not a lie. “We both’ll probably forget it by this afternoon.” A lie. “Big brothers are such a pain in the ass.” Not a lie. “We’ve just been stressed lately and it blew up this morning.” Not a lie. “I don’t even remember what we were fighting about, really.” A lie followed by a laugh. 

April blinked, looking a little dazed and Sam wondered why. She shook her head, black curls flying about her pale face. “Well, that’s good! I bet moving is stressful. At least you don’t seem to have a problem fitting in here!” She patted his shoulder, her small hand fluttering like a bird’s wing against him. That dazed look in her eyes returned and Sam raised an eyebrow in question. “Oh, wow!” She breathed. “You’re, uhm, strong…” She cleared her throat before Sam could say anything. “Right. Walk me to class?” 

April tilted her head, exposing her long white throat, her small breasts bouncing, despite the small movement. His stomach felt heavy in a good way as he walked with her and it was hard to talk casually but they managed. However, when he entered his own class he couldn’t seem to remember a thing they talked about. 

Before heading to the cafeteria for lunch, Sam decided to stop by his locker and pick up the books he needed for his afternoon classes. Closing the metal door, he saw a shadow move out of the corner of his eye. It was a little taller than the students, leaning around the corner and watching the teenagers congregated in the hall.  
He scanned the corridor, waiting for the few students lingering at their lockers to leave. Fingering the outline of the knife in his pocket, he moved toward the hall running perpendicular to the one his locker was on. Swallowing, he eased his hand inside his pocket and gripped the cold metal handle. 

He neared the corner, now the only person left in the hallway, the others hurrying to enjoy their lunch period. He took out his knife and, with practiced ease, flicked it open. He pushed his back to the wall and crept a few steps down the corridor with his knife at the ready. Listening for a few moments at the corner – ears perked for the sound of breathing, of clothes whispered, of feet squeaking on the linoleum – and hearing nothing, he held his breath and slowly leaned to the side to peek around the edge, his weight on the balls of his feet and his heart pounding in his ears. 

There was nothing there. Sam’s eyes widened and he whipped around, his muscles strung out on anticipation. There was nothing behind him, either. 

Sam frowned, looking around in all directions again and even glancing up at the ceiling, but… nothing. It must have been a teacher or another student, but Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever it was had been looking in his direction.   
  
Sam shook his head and returned his knife to his pocket. He jogged the rest of the way to the cafeteria, partly because he was late meeting his friends and partly because he was shaking slightly with unspent adrenaline and needed to do something. 

  
Sam and April were nearly late to math class. They were talking about King Arthur and April’s play one second –April staring up at him, cheeks flushed with laughter, hair in a messy up do that had half-fallen with black curls about her forehead and ears – and the next second Sam had his books, his locker closed, but they hadn’t moved. Sam leaned close to her, April’s back pressed against the lockers like they were the only thing holding her up. 

Sam didn’t know what was going to happen, but it was interrupted before he could find out by a heavy hand on his shoulder. He started and his hand flew to his pocket for his knife. It was hard to sneak up on him and with sudden clarity he remembered the shadow he had dismissed earlier. 

“Sammy.” The voice was genial and familiar and Sam looked over his shoulder to see Coach Schneider. He was smiling but not the same smile from the previous night. It looked a little sharper somehow.

“Sam.” He corrected automatically. Coach Schneider squeezed his shoulder hard. 

“Come on, Sam. You and your girlfriend are going to be late for class.” 

Both Sam and April’s face glowed red as they made a failed attempt to look each other in the eye. “Uh, right.” Sam cleared his throat and made to leave but Coach Schneider’s hand was still on his shoulder. He looked up to indicate that he couldn’t move and Coach Schneider clapped in him hard on the back and let go. 

“You stay outta trouble, Sam,” he said lightly and then walked away. 

April laughed as they hurried to class. “You buddies with Coach Schneider already? I hear he’s cool.” 

Sam shrugged, the remnants of whatever had just happened between him and April lingering warm in his belly. “He’s an old war buddy of Dad’s. He helped us get the house we live in and set Dean and Dad up with some jobs.”   
  
“Well, I guess he’s a good friend to have,” she smiled, entering their classroom.

“Yeah,” Sam answered. “He’s super.” 

In study hall, he got a head start on research. He was supposed to be in the school’s library with the rest of his class, but he snuck out and headed to the computer lab which didn’t have a class for the rest of the day. He picked the lock and eased inside. He browsed the internet for fire monsters while running a couple of searches in the local library’s database for local history and references of the supernatural. 

By the time the period was almost over and he needed to get back to the library, Sam had a list of fire monsters — some improbable possibilities, others not. The first of the list was Destroyah, which was actually a monster from the Japanese Godzilla franchise, but Dean would love the possibility and Sam wasn’t about to rule anything out yet. Next could be a pyrokinetic human, though Sam couldn’t find any previous pyrokinetics in his initial search. There was a Basan, a fire-breathing chicken monster. Another possibility was a chimera which breathed fire but was associated with volcanoes and since they weren’t in Hawaii Sam seriously doubted that a chimera was a possibility. 

Sam typed in “fire demons” because mythological monsters were sounding less probable with each new website he visited. There was Marbas, a Duke of Hell in the shape of “a powerful lion that vomits fire”. Then there was Moloch, one of the first of ten evil Sephiroth in Kabalistic tradition, with an element of fire and referred to as a “demon of unwilling sacrifice”. It was possible that the people being burned were sacrifices to this demon, in which case the culprit could be a witch. He made note of it. Sam grew sick with the possibilities. Only Dad had ever encountered demons—only two, actually. If there was even a possibility of demons Dad instructed both Sam and Dean to stay behind, working closely with Caleb, Bobby, or Pastor Jim instead.

Johann Wier’s _Pseudomanarchia Daemonum_ held more information about these demons but wasn’t found at the local library. Sam made a note to ask for an interlibrary loan when he got to the library that afternoon. He quickly grew frustrated that the library didn’t have any of his usual references. Dad had a copy of _Agrippa_ , but neither they nor the library had a copy of _The Lesser Key of Solomon_. He would spend today digging into the local history. He would also bring up newspapers around the time and area of Mom’s death. As far as he knew, Mom was the only person that died by fire in the Lawrence area whereas here there have already been two deaths. 

Sam erased his browser history and as the computer was shutting down he saw a shadow pass by the small window in the door. Sam ducked and stayed still for a minute, listening. It was probably just a student or a teacher passing by, but Sam was again reminded of the figure he had seen in the hall before lunch. He scuttled to the door, still squatting down, and listened intently but again didn’t hear anything. Cautiously, he stood up and peeked out of the window. No one was standing there or nearby. 

Sam locked the door and made his way back to the school library, senses alert but not seeing or hearing anyone. He hoped that they played basketball again in P.E. next period. Maybe he could work out his nerves and anxiety. 

Sam thought Dad should be calling in reinforcements, but suspected that even if it turned out to be a fire demon or Godzilla’s nemesis, Dad wouldn’t call for help if he thought that it might be Mom’s killer. He would want to keep revenge in the family and, despite wanting safety for his family, Sam couldn’t help but agree. He hadn’t sacrificed sixteen years of his life for a woman he didn’t even know to just give it up to a stranger. 

They played another game of basketball and if anything Sam played better than the day before. He had more on his mind that he wanted to sweat out. Eventually even Mason had to shut up and concentrate in order to keep up with him. 

After class, Mason gave Sam the time he’d set up for the meeting with the basketball coach the next day and pointed out his office, just a few down from Coach Schneider’s. Sam nodded, turning back to his new friend when Mason cleared his throat nervously to find an odd look on his face, almost shy. Stammering, Mason invited him bowling on Friday night, an apparent tradition for their group. Sam smiled, eyebrow quirked at the change in Mason’s attitude, and told him he’d think about it, but probably wouldn’t make it. Weekends were for hunting, anyway. 

Mason left in his athletic clothes for basketball practice and Sam stayed behind to change back into his street clothes. His unbuttoned jeans hung on his hips as he tugged his flannel long-sleeve over his under t-shirt. 

“Hey, Pretty Boy.” Sam’s breath caught in his throat and he whipped around, his skin burning with panic. 

Coach Schneider towered over him and Sam unconsciously took a step back until his shoulders hit the lockers. “Don’t call me that.” He snapped and then amended it with, “sir”.

Coach Schneider’s razor smile was back and Sam felt it cut across his throat. “You’re a touchy kid, Sam.” He said easily. “And damned paranoid like your dad, too.” 

Sam forgot that he was supposed to be polite to this guy and scowled at him. Even if he was being a good friend to Dad and even if Sam was pissed as hell at Dad right now, that did not mean that this guy could just talk about Dad or their family. 

Coach Schneider laughed and ruffled Sam’s hair, letting his hand linger there for a moment, running them slowly through the locks before letting his hand fall. He took another step forward and Sam was reminded of the position he and April were in earlier today before Schneider had interrupted. 

“Relax, man. I’m just teasing. Your dad is paranoid, you are too. I guess it’s natural.” 

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Natural?” He drawled warningly. 

Schneider’s smile was patronizing. “Yeah, with what happened to your Mom. Changes your outlook on life I guess.”

Sam snarled and moved to step around the man. This subject was too touchy today. And what right did this man have to just talk about Mom? Had Dad told him?

A wide hand pressed on Sam’s collarbone and pushed him back into the lockers. A lock dug into the base of Sam’s neck, making him wince. He looked wide-eyed up at Dad’s friend, muscles coiling, ready to fight or run. 

Nathan just smiled and petted Sam’s shoulder before holding both hands up as if in surrender. However, he didn’t step back and Sam realized he had been holding his breath as if conserving air in a coffin. “Relax, man. I talk before I speak, I’m afraid even the Marines couldn’t beat that out of me.” He was so close and yet Sam couldn’t look him in the eyes. 

“It was out of line.” Schneider continued and Sam kept his eyes on the broad shoulders and chest, glancing down to judge Schneider’s balance. “But you should know that your dad has told me about her.” He shrugged and Sam flinched at the movement. “Just didn’t want you to take offense.” 

Sam’s intake of breath actually whistled his throat was so tight. He cleared his throat and tried to make himself relax. “R-right.” He cleared his throat again, sparing a fleeting glance up at Schneider’s eyes. “Right. It’s okay. I’m a little stressed, with the move and new school and all.” 

Coach Schneider nodded and smiled, putting his hand on Sam’s shoulder—more of his upper arm, really—and left it there consolingly. “I’ll bet. I know it’s been hard on your family. But now you’ve got an okay place to start out and your dad and brother have jobs. I know a new school is hard but you looked like you were doing okay.” His hand came up to Sam’s head, cupping his ear and digging his fingers into Sam’s scalp. Sam had seen the gesture a few times before, Dad had even done it once. It was supposed to be a brief tap to show pride and affection, but Coach Schneider again let his hand linger. 

“Thanks to you.” Sam whispered and felt like he was betraying himself though he didn’t know why. 

Once again Coach Schneider’s smile felt like a razor at his throat. “It’s no problem, always glad to help.” He let his hand fall from Sam and stuffed it in the pocket of his khakis. Still, he didn’t move. “I’m glad your family’s here now. Pike Creek’s a nice place. Maybe you guys will finally settle down, huh?” 

Sam nodded, realizing he had never really thought of that. It didn’t look like it could be Mom’s killer to Sam, but it could be and that meant that this could be their last hunt. Would they stay here? Sam found he didn’t mind that option. He really liked his friends here, but he didn’t like Coach Schneider. Would they move back to Kansas? Would Dean leave? 

“I guess.” Sam answered again. “Look, I gotta go, Coach.” 

Coach Schneider finally stepped back. “It’s Nathan. Well, outside of gym class, anyway. You’re a family friend, it’s all right.” He said smoothly. “Thanks for cooking last night, Sam. Maybe I’ll spring for dinner next time?” 

Sam swallowed back a bitter taste. “Next time?” 

Nathan frowned. “This Friday. Your dad invited me. That okay with you?” 

“Uh, yeah, cool.” He said absently. If Dad and Nathan were going to hang out, then maybe Sam had a chance to go bowling. He’d only been once with Dean and they had both pretty much sucked at it, though Dean bragged otherwise. 

“Well, Sam. Have a good day. Be safe on the way home.” 

Sam nodded and skittered past Nathan. “Right. Thanks. See you.” He blurted out hastily and made his retreat. 

When he got to the entrance to the school this time he knew someone was in the shadows. He hit the steps and smiled at her. “Hey, April. You still hanging around?” 

“Waiting on you, actually.” She said as she easily fell in step with him down the stairs. The sun was bright and warm on his skin only to be cooled by a breath of cold wind. He could smell the faint, sharp scent of chimney smoke. 

“Yeah?” He adjusted the strap on his bag.

“I wanted to ask you something. We’re going bowling Friday night. It’s kind of a thing we do. You wanna come?”

“Actually, Mason already asked me.” Sam said and for a moment he could have sworn jealousy flashed across her pale face. “I’m not sure if I can make it. We usually do family stuff on the weekends, but Coach Schneider’s coming to hang with Dad so maybe. I won’t really know until Friday, probably.” 

She bounced her step a little and thank God her books were hugged to her chest or else Sam wouldn’t have been able to look away again. “That’s great! I hope you can come! You want a ride or anything?”

Sam smiled thankfully at her. “Actually, I’m going to the library now and I want to walk some. Thanks, though. I might take you up on your offer sometime when it gets colder.” 

April laughed. “That sounds good.” She agreed, but Sam was distracted, something moved from behind an oak tree in the school’s lawn around to the wall of the school where they were obscured by the wide steps. Sam took a half step in that direction, his knife burning in his pocket.

“Sam?” 

His head snapped around. “Sorry, thought I saw something.”

She reached up and pushed him slightly on his shoulder. “See you tomorrow?” 

Sam shrugged and tried for a shy smile that he knew she’d see through. “Where else would I be?” 

She rolled her eyes and turned, waving over her shoulder as she walked to the parking lot. Sam took a blessed minute to watch her ass sway in her jeans before he shook his head and walked toward the place where he’d seen the shadow. He put his hand in his pocket, fingering his knife for the third time today. He eased around the stone railing of the steps, not nearly as cautious as earlier because he knew that he was just being paranoid again. 

He’s almost startled when he saw actual people there this time – a couple making out. Sam felt his cheeks flame and quickly turned around, practically power walking away. He’d delayed his visit to the library long enough, anyway.

The library was a good walk from the school but the town was compact. He was on Main Street in no time. Pike Creek was a nice place, well-preserved, but antique at the same time – a perfect example of the dichotomy of small town America. Sam admired the little cafes and shops as he walked, stepping into a small bookstore. When he turned down a row of books he thought he saw a figure the same height as the shadow he’d seen all day pass by the big window. Sam didn’t even bother to investigate; he was tired of his paranoia. 

A quick browse revealed that there wasn’t anything that would be helpful on the hunt so he left. A few minutes later Sam again got the feeling that he was being followed. He didn’t look behind him to make sure, just ducked into the hardware store with a faded orange sign to see if the feeling lingered. 

The floor was made of wood so old that there were spaces between the boards. They creaked and groaned beneath him but also gave a satisfying hollow clunk with every step. Sam got distracted by the shelves and shelves of stuff but he didn’t feel that foreboding tingle on the back of his neck anymore. Probably his imagination, then. 

At the library he found that there were no other deaths like Mom’s in the Lawrence area within a year of her death. He re-read the news articles on the two deaths in Pike Creek and the best explanation he had was still fire-demons. It took nearly all of his time, but he scanned the microfilm newspapers back through Pike Creek’s history. It was nearing five o’clock and Sam still needed to cook something half-way filling for dinner tonight, do his homework, and present his findings to Dad and Dean. The thought of Dean and Dad twisted his stomach as he realized he would have to face Dean again. 

He found a newspaper article so old it was actually hard to read because of the colonial spelling. However, it said that there was a fire at the church that doubled as a school. Most kids aged six to ten were killed along with a couple of teachers. The school Sam attended was built on its remains. Only one person killed was associated with the school—Edna Reese, aged 50, had been a member of the school board. 

There were no other names mentioned but Sam noted the date. There hadn’t been sign of ghost activity in the school—except for the weird figure that Sam kept spying but there were no cold spots and Sam had pretty much ruled it out as a manifestation of stress and anxiety. Still, as the pattern wasn’t matching up with Mom’s death, it was the best lead. 

He made a lousy dinner with even lousier ingredients, but he hadn’t wanted to spend money again so soon on food and Dad and Dean didn’t complain. In fact, any strained attempt at conversation Sam gave (it was hard when it still felt like is chest was sliced open from this morning) was met with cold silence. Sam clammed up, too, when he realized Dean must have already discussed Sam’s “behavior” with Dad. Sam hadn’t eaten much at lunch, too shaken up by his imagined figure in the hall. Now he felt so sick about Dad and Dean’s silence that he only picked at his meal.   
  
It’s not my fault! He wanted to scream but didn’t. Instead, he presented his research, to a judgmental looking Dad. “This it?” 

Sam frowned because Dad was usually the one telling Sam that research took time and was a painful process with benefits few and far between. “Yes, Sir.” 

Dad nodded. “What do you think?” The question was directed at Dean. 

Dean shrugged. “I think there’s still a strong possibility.” That it’s Mom’s killer, Sam filled in mentally. 

Dad swung his head around to Sam, eyebrow raised for his opinion. Sam licked his lips. “The pattern doesn’t fit with Lawrence. Still, we can’t rule it out.” It irritated him to admit it. Maybe if it was Mom’s killer then the stress they had all been under, all of the things that they sacrificed, and the argument this morning could have meaning. 

“You think it’s a demon?” Dad asked. 

“I don’t have enough information.” Sam pointed out. “Right now, it could be a demon or a witch or a pyrokinetic human.” Sam swallowed. “I also think that the church fire is worth looking into. I know only one victim was associated with the school, but it was the only traumatic event involving fire in this town. And the paper only told the number of people killed but didn’t mention any names or how the fire was started.” 

Dad nodded thoughtfully and turned to Dean who looked tense. “What do you think, Dean?” Sam knew Dad had a theory, probably had a dozen theories before they even arrived at Pike Creek. In fact, he hadn’t said anything about the fires being connected to Mom’s death and had left Dean and Sam to come up with that on their own. Sam didn’t mind being tested or drilled about the finer points of hunting, but it would be nice if Dad shared his thoughts every once in a while.

“I say we stick to the demon idea. Even if it’s a witch, we still need to figure out what demon they’re connected to, right?”   
  
Sam nodded. “Right. I think the next step is to investigate the places where the bodies were found for sulfur or hex bags.” 

Dad nodded. “We need autopsy reports. People know the real us, though.” 

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat causing Dad and Dean’s eyes to settle on him for the first time that evening. “Well, we could break in and take photos of the report. Or I could try hacking into the police computer system.”

Their looks were blank. “You can do that, Sammy?” 

“Uhm. Yeah? I mean, this kid at school taught me last year. I’ve been practicing some. I think I can do it, but I would need to find another computer to do it on in case I do mess up and they trace it back to ours.” Their laptop was this gigantic thing that ran slowly, clogged with one too many bugs from Dean’s porn sites. 

“You don’t sound confident. We’ll break in and take photos of the reports.” Dad dismissed him. 

“But—“ 

“Enough, Sam.” Dad said sternly. 

Sam would normally try to argue the point, but he was so stunned he failed to utter a word. Dad usually encouraged him and Dean to find new and more efficient ways to execute a hunt. 

“All right. Me and Dean will break into the police department tonight. If the crimes scenes are empty we’ll go check those out tonight, too.” 

“Wait. I’ll come.” Sam said as they all three stood from the table. 

Dean looked away and Dad’s faced Sam. “Don’t you have homework?”

“What?” Sam breathed. He cleared his throat because he sounded as scared as he felt. “Yes.” 

“Wouldn’t you rather do that?” 

Realization dawned on Sam. Dean had told Dad about their fight this morning. 

Swift anger overtook Sam and he pushed the papers he had printed out and meticulously ordered across the table. “Fucking unbelievable!” 

“You watch your mouth, Samuel! Don’t you talk that way to me!” Dad thundered and Sam could feel the reverberations in his chest. 

Survival instincts were screaming at him to shut up but Sam couldn’t. “I’ve got to talk to you somehow because you sure as hell won’t talk to me! You’d rather talk to Dean about me! You don’t trust me! You’re treating me like I’m a kid!” 

“I’m treating you according to how you act, Sam!” 

“You’re controlling me!” Sam screamed. “You’re controlling us like some kind of army, not like human beings—not like your sons!”

“Sammy—“ Dean started, looking pained. Sam whipped around and Dean actually flinched at the wrath that must be splotched all over his face. 

“And you! You’re just like him!” He pointed at Dean. Sam used to be able to tell Dean anything and Dean used to be able to pick up if there was something bothering Sam. Now Dean was dogging Sam’s steps just like Dad, as if Sam needed to be watched all the time. 

Dad took a threatening step forward. “You’ll shut your damn mouth, Sam.” 

“I won’t!” Sam screamed again, his voice cracking and burning with emotion. “I won’t shut up! I’m tired of you controlling me like I’m a cog in this insane hunting machine you’ve created!” Tears burned his eyes but he refused to blink and let them fall. 

“This is an old argument.” Dad said evenly, no longer yelling but sounding disappointed. “I won’t justify what we do to you anymore. I shouldn’t have to.” 

Sam felt sickened because that’s not what he had meant. He looked at Dean who wasn’t looking at either of them, but off to the side. Pain was etched deep across his brother’s face and Sam knew that Dean felt they shouldn’t be fighting like this, they were family. But that was Sam’s point. They weren’t acting like a family. 

All the fight was stolen from him as he looked at Dean. Dean was perpetually stuck in the middle between the father he’d sworn to obey and the brother he’d sworn to protect. Sam’s shoulders slumped. Ducking his head, he nodded. “I’ll go finish my homework.” He went down the hall, glad that he and Dean had separate rooms for a change.

Sam stared out the window until he heard Dad and Dean leave. His did his homework to keep his mind occupied. After that he reread _The Red Badge of Courage_ by flashlight because a lamp would make him feel exposed and vulnerable. Sam read the words “he had grown to regard himself merely as a part of a vast blue demonstration” and stopped to stare vacantly at the wall for some minutes before resuming. It was a short novel so he was about halfway done when he heard Dean and Dad come back around two-thirty in the morning. At three-thirty he had the flashlight back on and continued reading, unable to sleep. He finished by the time he was supposed to get up and get ready for school. 

*****

Sam tried out for the basketball team and made it. He wasn’t sure why he even followed through with the try-out because if Dad and Dean ever found out it would just prove that Sam was disobedient. He made quick friends with his new teammates. He didn’t talk to many of them outside of the court, but they get along well. 

Sam was stressed. He barely ate and he couldn’t sleep much at night. He threw himself into basketball practices and school projects and savored every conversation he had with Mac, Mason, and April. 

Things with April were at a painful standstill. The times snatched together in school always seem to be interrupted. Sam was about to kiss April on Wednesday morning when Mac barreled into them talking excitedly about Sam’s basketball tryouts. They were interrupted three more times by Nathan, all before math class. 

Sam saw the shadow-figure two more times and felt as if he was being followed to the library again on Thursday. 

Basketball practice was over at 4:30 and Sam had to rush to the library to get some research in before heading home to make dinner. There wasn’t sulfur or a hex bag in sight at the crime scenes and autopsy reports didn’t show anything unusual. So while Sam tried to find anything he could on fire demons he was also looking into the church fire. He hadn’t had much luck with either though Dad had taken up the brunt of the fire demon research by calling Bobby and Pastor Jim for help while he looked into the weather patterns for omens. Sam found three diaries dated a decade or so after the fire but he had skimmed through one and there’d been no mention of it. Almost fifty people died—most of them kids—and Sam couldn’t find any specifics. Dean and Dad had been scouring the outskirts of the town throughout the week, looking for a “burning ground”. The police could be right with their hunch that someone or something was burning the bodies and then taking the remains back to the victim’s homes. 

On Friday, Sam went straight home from basketball. He’d already checked out two diaries so it wasn’t necessary to go by the library. April had told him before they parted that they would start bowling around eight that night if Sam could make it. Sam told her he probably wouldn’t come. What he didn’t tell her was that home lately had been more of an ice box. Like two magnets with the same pole Sam and Dean avoided each other. Sam let Dean get up for work by himself in the morning and in return Dean hardly spoke to Sam. It was too much to be in the same room together and one of them usually ended up leaving as soon as the other entered. Dad was a non-presence, Sam only caught glimpses of him in the morning and evening. The only time they talked was when Dad asked for an update on Sam’s research. 

Nathan was coming over for beer and burgers, courtesy of Nathan this time, and Sam had to hide hunt-related stuff and pick up around the house. Also, Dad and Dean’s work shirts needed washing. Sam was almost done when Dad came home and he immediately felt the tension. Dad greeted him curtly in his usual manner - still mad at Sam, still not understanding him, but trying to act normal. When Dean came in Sam couldn’t breathe the air was so heavy. Dean was giving Sam the silent treatment except for the occasions where he snapped at Sam for no reason. 

Nathan was supposed to come at 7:30 but he showed up a little after seven. Dad and Dean were all jokes and smiles for Nathan and it made Sam want to throw up because they acted nicer to him than they had to Sam since Monday. They were halfway through the meal when they needed more beers and Sam quickly offered to go, anxious to get away from all of them. 

Sam’s head was in the refrigerator when the sound of plastic rattling startled him. He jumped back, almost dropping the beer bottles in the process, but relaxed when realized it was Nathan digging in the bags he brought over. He looked up and smiled at Sam. “Chips,” he said by way of explanation, waving a red foil bag. 

Sam nodded but couldn’t seem to bring himself to smile back. He turned around to the counter, setting down the three beers and fumbling with the bottle opener. Suddenly a broad chest was pressed against Sam’s back and big hands were placed on the counter on either side of him, trapping him between thick arms. Hot breath burned like steam against Sam’s ear. 

“You’ve been bad, haven’t you, Pretty Boy?” 

Sam dropped the bottle opener and rammed his shoulder back into the chest behind him. Nathan let out a breath and stepped back, but Sam had no delusions. He felt the hard muscles pressed against him. If Nathan hadn’t wanted to step back then Sam’s shove wouldn’t have moved him. Sam whirled around, his eyes narrowed. The edges of his vision blurred like static and Sam knew he must look pale. 

“What?” Sam whispered, trying to growl threateningly, but his voice broke to the rapid beat of his heart. 

Nathan’s smiled knowingly, triumphantly. Suddenly Dad was there. 

“What’s going on?” Dad asked, taking in Sam’s visage with a frown. 

Before Sam could work his voice around his heart which was somehow in his throat, Nathan turned to Dad, a confused look on his face. “Just asked him how basketball was going.” He shrugged and grinned at Dad. “You must be proud of him.” 

Sam’s world stopped. 

He knew that he would have to quit basketball. That there was no way he could hide game days—especially away games because of how long they were - but Sam was going to quietly quit. Dad and Dean were never supposed to know. 

Forget thunder, Dad’s face instantly morphed into the apocalypse. “I thought I told you that you couldn’t play.” He said slowly with a quick side glance at Nathan whose attention was on Sam. Dad didn’t want to make a scene in front of Nathan, but he was probably so angry that it was going to happen anyway. 

Sam would never know why he said it, probably his latent suicidal tendencies rearing up at the most inopportune time. “Technically, you didn’t tell me anything.” Sam snarked back. 

“Samuel—“ Sam was moving for the door before Dad could launch into a tirade, forcing Dad to cut himself off. “Where the hell are you going?” Dad yelled. 

Sam didn’t have a coat but he wasn’t risking getting anywhere near his dad to get it. He looked over his shoulder as he turned the door handle and saw Dean just behind his father looking pale and stunned. Nathan was saying something like “didn’t mean to cause any trouble” but it was all static in Sam’s dizzy head.

“Getting the fuck out of here.” Sam snarled at Dad and threw himself into the cold October night, thankful that at least his wallet was still in his pocket. 

Looked like he’s going bowling after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another co-written chapter, but with a little more of my influence so the writing will be different from previous parts. From here on out the chapters should be shorter as well.

Present Day

  
The next morning, Sam woke to a pleasant smell that he was too lazy to place. Light filtered in, the pale grey of early morning, dim enough that it was easy to ignore. Sam was cold and his brow furrowed as he groped around on the cool sheets for his space heater of a big brother, refusing to open his eyes to greet the morning yet. 

“Sammy! C’mon, baby boy! I got breakfast!” 

He rolled into Dean’s pillow and burrowed deep under the covers.

“Come on, baby!” Dean’s voice cajoled. “I slaved over this hot stove all morning to make you the perfect breakfast. The least you could do is get up and eat it!” There was no bite to his words, in fact, Dean couldn’t seem to get them out through his laughter. 

Sam smiled a little into Dean’s pillow. “’m comin’,” he grumbled as he rolled and practically fell out of bed, his toes jumping reflexively off the cold hardwood floors. He sleepily shuffled around the sparse room until found the thick flannel button-up that Dean wore yesterday. Slipping his arms into the too short sleeves, he trudged out into the kitchen where he could hear Dean singing off key. 

Dean glanced over his shoulder, green eyes on fire with amusement and joy, and Sam’s sleep-addled mind was a little stunned at the genuine mirth displayed before him. Then it stuttered to a complete halt as his eyes roved down his brother’s body. 

Dean was in a dark blue police uniform, complete with belt and the associated police paraphernalia -- handcuffs, walkie-talkie, night stick, the works. The pants were well-fitting, roomy enough to allow free movement but snug enough to accentuate Dean’s ass. The shirt was tight, stretching over Dean’s wide chest and broad back, and his biceps tested the seams of his sleeves as they bulged when he tried to flip the pancakes. 

The sight went straight to Sam’s cock hard and fast and his belly burned with arousal and desire. Who knew he had a cop kink?

Dean, not usually a morning person, couldn’t help but bounce out of bed early this morning. When Sam had called him “love” last night it had put such a big grin on his face that he was still wearing it. With one word, he felt both needed and wanted. Snorting, he rolled his eyes at his own thoughts and lifted the edge of one of the pancakes to see if it was ready to flip.

“So, I haven’t cooked pancakes in a long time, but they smell good so it can’t be too bad, right?” 

Instead of getting a verbal response, long hands grasped his shoulders and spun him around. “Sam!” 

Nimble fingers pried the spatula from his hand and set it on the counter by the stove. Sam leaned into him, bodily moving him back into the counter’s edge. Dean smirked when he saw his shirt draped over Sam’s shoulders, open and revealing planes of delicious honey skin. He only had a second to take in lust blown eyes before his lips were attacked in a fierce, demanding kiss. Sam’s mouth was hot, his lips a little dry, his tongue demanding. Sam moaned loud and wantonly and the sound made Dean’s lower belly tighten and flutter. 

“Food,” Dean muttered into Sam’s mouth. His arm flailed out blindly, fumbling with the dials to turn off the burners. 

He grasped Sam’s hips and let his hands slip down and cup his firm ass. Lust was fogging his mind, but gradually he realized that Sam was sliding his chest up and down Dean’s uniform shirt. He could feel the buttons on his shirt scrape against Sam’s skin, could hear the material whisper as it rubbed. And then Dean got it. He pushed Sam back enough that Dean could breathe and talk. 

“You have a thing for my uniform,” he gasped as he felt the awe take hold of him. Sam’s lips were spit-slick and swollen red, the hazel of his eyes fast losing the battle with his blown pupils. His little brother’s chest was red from the friction against the rough material of Dean’s shirt and his dusty nipples were hard from the stimulation and the cool air in the room. 

Sam was already leaning back in to reclaim Dean’s mouth, his brow knit in impatience. “Yes. Now, shut up and hold still.” Sam commanded, the fingers of one hand fumbling with Dean’s belt while the other cupped Dean’s growing erection. Sam’s mouth fell to place small kisses and tiny nips to Dean’s jaw line, following it up to the shell of his ear where Sam licked and bit a little harder and longer. His head lolled to Dean’s neck, lavishing the skin and muscles there with tender attention. 

Dean bucked into Sam’s hands, groaning. Sam was practically mauling Dean and Dean was so hard his head spun. His body thrummed with excitement and arousal and he gripped Sam’s ass harder, encouraging Sam to speed things up. 

Sam unclasped his belt. The button and zipper quickly followed, hanging open in a vee that framed the bulge of his cock hidden beneath snug boxer briefs. He stroked Dean’s cock through the wash-worn cotton and Dean’s knees almost buckled at the realization that Sam didn’t want him to take off the uniform. He growled and bucked his hips, pushing hard off of the counter. Dean spun trapping Sam in a corner of the counter top. 

Dean plunged his tongue in, taking just a second to map out Sam’s sweet mouth before fucking his tongue in and out. Sam moaned and practically melted, his shoulders sagging and his body slipping down against the counter top. Their hips rutted against each other with almost bruising force. 

“Come on, love.” Sam gasped when Dean released his mouth. Dean moaned at the name, at Sam’s half-closed eyes and flushed cheeks. 

Dean kissed Sam again, pulling and tugging his sweats until they puddled on the floor. Dean lifted Sam onto the counter top, avoiding kicking legs as his little brother irritably freed his feet from the elastic cuffs of the cotton pants. Sam gripped the material of his uniform hard at the shoulders in a stubborn effort to haul Dean up with him and Dean grinned at his lover’s neediness. Sam’s swollen cock was red, curved and resting against his hipbone, straining and aching for attention but Dean ignored it in favor for the pert nipples in front of his face. He wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist as he licked and sucked at his chest, teasing nipples with his teeth and tongue. 

Sam felt like he couldn’t catch his breath; as soon as he got some air Dean took it away with a new jolt of pleasure. “God, yes, Dean,” he whispered. “Please,” he begged, Dean’s tongue mapping out his abs and stomach. He was burning, so hot he was on fire. “So good, De. More. Your mouth, your cock inside, anything,” he babbled and then fell into a litany of “pleases”. 

Dean’s mouth reached his hipbone, licking, biting and sucking hard on the tender, sensitive skin. Sam groaned and bucked, his fingers digging into Dean’s scalp as he rode the intense shock of pain and pleasure.

Dean leaned back to admire his work. Sam looked defiled with Dean’s flannel shirt open and falling off his shoulders, head lolled back and cradled in the corner of the cabinets. He was breathing short and heavy, ribs and abs expanding and concaving in opposing beats. 

Hazel eyes peeked out from heavy lids and white teeth bit into his bottom lip. “Swear to God, De,” Sam panted. “If you don’t do something right the fuck now, I’m going to do it without you.” 

Dean groaned and placed his forehead against Sam’s lower stomach, unable to hold it up under the onslaught of images that came with that suggestion. “Later, please,” Dean begged. “Promise.”

Sam chuckled huskily and used one hand to guide Dean’s head to where he wanted it to be. He was so close he was pretty sure all Dean had to really do was breathe on his cock to push him over the edge. “Promise, love,” he croaked as Dean finally encased the crown in his hot mouth and sucked hard. 

Sam got lost in the pleasure but he strained to keep his eyes open, to let the image of Dean in his navy uniform with his perfect lips wrapped around Sam fuel the sensations. His head flopped back and forth in the corner of the wooden cabinets but still he kept his eyes open to watch as Dean started bobbing his head up and down. “Yeah, love. Fuck! Don’t stop!” Sam encouraged and couldn’t help but buck up into the tight, wet heat. He felt the head of his cock hit the back of Dean’s throat and backed off, trying hard to stay still. 

Dean felt Sam buck, almost choked on the hard flesh but relaxed just in time. Sam’s face was wanton and his body writhed – his muscles convulsed and needy moans escaped pink lips. Dean wanted more of that and went about his task with more fervor, ignoring his own painfully hard cock in favor of seeing Sam come undone.

It wasn’t long before his hard work was rewarded. “De, De,” Sam chanted like Dean was his saving grace and it was enough warning for Dean to pull back so he didn’t choke. Sam cried out through his orgasm and Dean milked it as best he could suddenly all too aware of ache between his own legs. 

Sam was boneless and Dean dragged him off the counter, catching his weight and his lips as he tumbled forward. “God, love you so much.” Sam murmured into the not-quite-kiss, still trying to re-gather his finer motor skills. Dean was desperate at this point, rutting hard against any part of Sam his hips could meet. 

“Come on, baby.” Dean whispered hotly in Sam’s ear. 

“What do you want?” Sam was already carefully freeing Dean’s erection and stroking it lightly, not nearly hard enough. 

“Your hand,” Dean demanded and sank his teeth lightly into the junction between Sam’s neck and shoulder to keep the embarrassing whimpers and whines to a minimum. When Sam was not quick enough to comply, Dean started thrusting helplessly in his brother’s loose hold, trying hard for the tight and the heat that would bring him over the edge. 

Sam gripped the velvet flesh in his hand harder and set his strokes at a faster pace. He flicked his thumb across the slit and twisted every couple of strokes, causing Dean to collapse into him, practically crushing Sam between his body and the edge of the counter. “Sammy,” Dean breathed out into Sam’s neck when he released. He continued thrusting as Sam pumped him, ropes of warm cum coating Sam’s hand.

They stood there for a few minutes, bodies vibrating and weightless, with Sam holding onto Dean and Dean crushing Sam into the counter. When they caught their breath they kissed again, languidly and lazily. Dean pulled back, taking Sam with him, and looked into Sam’s sated eyes and content smile.

“I… hope you have another uniform,” Sam husked out. Dean frowned and looked down, groaning at the conspicuous stains on it now. 

“Yeah, I do. I gotta change and then go pretend that I’m a law-abiding citizen with a nine-to-five job,” Dean answered quietly and Sam smiled indulgently at him. 

“You’ll make it.” 

Dean nodded seriously like it was his new mission. “I’m going to have to so we can explore this new cop fetish of yours tonight.” 

Sam blushed and grinned. “I don’t think I can wait.” Dean kissed him quickly again and rushed off to the bedroom, unaware of the plan forming in Sam’s mind. 

Because Sam really couldn’t wait until tonight.

***

Hill Street Blues and NYPD Blue were liars. It turned out that “sheriff” equated to unglorified and underappreciated paper pusher. He wasn’t cut out for a desk job, hunting instilling an ADHD in him that Ritalin couldn’t hope to curb. His lungs twitched for fresh air and his body craved the hum of tires on pavement. 

He pretended to do office work when people were around, utilizing his alone time to go through the case files on the current deaths for information. His largest concern as the day dragged on was that he might singlehandedly destroy any semblance of peace and order in the small town of Pike Creek. 

His morning started with a drunk and disorderly whose apparently good time last night had rolled over into this morning. The kid, maybe seventeen or eighteen and a jock by the looks of his letterman jacket, was picked up, sitting up in the middle of Main Street in a pool of his own vomit and clutching a mostly-empty bottle of cheap tequila. He was half-unconscious making it hard to gather what exactly happened, but the fake ID—a terrible fake ID – painted a fairly clear picture. In Dean’s opinion, the only thing the kid should be in trouble for was having a fake ID that looked like it was created by a Kindergartener. The hangover alone would be punishment enough. 

Shaking his head at the pale, miserable teenager, he ordered, “Call his parents!” The kid turned slightly green, “and put him in a cell to sleep it off.” 

The hour before lunch proved to be so surreal he had to call Sam. 

“Sam,” he gasped between peals of laughter. “Sammy, you’re never going to believe this. There’s a pet kangaroo loose on the town.”

“Get back to work, Dean.” 

Dean frowned. “Dude, I can’t make this shit up.” 

There was a lengthy pause from Sam’s side. “…a kangaroo? Are you chasing it?” 

“Uh, no. That’s what deputies are for,” he said, like it should be obvious. Sometimes it was good to be the boss. “My suggestion was to shoot it, but apparently we can’t hurt the kangaroo until it hurts someone first.”

“Oh my God, Dean. I can see the headline tonight. Local sheriff shoots pet kangaroo for jay-hopping. Other than the kangaroo caper, you having a good day?” 

“Yeah, boring as hell though,” Dean lamented.

“We could trade and you could work with kids.” 

“Hell, no,” Dean chirped pleasantly. “That mean you got the job?” 

“I start tomorrow,” Sam confirmed and Dean snorted. 

“I would congratulate you and tell you that it’ll be easy but I’ve got one of your students locked up in my jail right now so that can’t be a good sign.”

“Not a big deal,” Sam dismissed. “Just ready to get done with this hunt and out of this town.” 

Dean frowned. “Really? I mean, we got this apartment already. I figured after this we could just stay here for a few weeks of vacation. Maybe even until Thanksgiving or Christmas.” Pike Creek seemed like a nice enough town to settle for a while and recharge their batteries, unexplained deaths aside. 

“I don’t want to stay here, Dean,” Sam’s voice was soft and even a little pleading and it threw Dean. 

“Okay, Sammy,” his brows scrunched together, a sense of wrong washing over him. “Tropical, exotic getaway to Florida it is.” He was relieved to hear Sam laugh, though it sounded uneasy. “Oh, gotta go. They caught the kangaroo,” he said, looking out the front windshield. 

“Have fun, Steve Irwin.” Sam’s laugh was more genuine and Dean felt the corners of his mouth turn up in an answering smile.

He got out of the cruiser, smoothing his hand down the front of his uniform. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Dean. “Hey. You’re gonna be a teacher—“

“Guidance counselor,” Sam corrected, warily. 

“We’ll go with teacher for simplicity’s sake,” Dean dismissed. “So. Sammy. I have this teacher and student kink.”

Sam laughed. “One costume party at a time. I’ll think about it after and only after I get you in uniform,” his voice dropped a few octaves, breathy and sultry. 

Dean swallowed thickly. “Sammy. Don’t tease.” 

“Go catch your meandering marsupial. We’ll talk more about this later.” Dean hung up the phone to his brother’s soft chuckles. He surreptitiously adjusted himself and, heaving a frustrated sigh, approached his deputies struggling to restrain the wayward kangaroo.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing I can say....this chapter is pure smut, but it's plot progressing smut :) Another co-written chapter, but with a little more of my influence so the writing will be different from previous parts.

Dean spent the rest of his workday copying the files on all the recent murders and trying not to think about Sam’s newfound love of law enforcement officers or his own hot for teacher fantasies. He flipped through field reports and crime scene photos, hoping for a distraction. He spread the files over his desk – four teenagers and two adults. Except for the smoking corpse in the non-smoking house and the stabbing, all of the deaths looked like suicides and accidents. The causes of death were so varied, it could be a coincidence. Unfortunately, the Winchesters stopped believing in coincidence 25 years ago.

At ten minutes to five, Dean gathered up the files he’d copied, desperate to get back to the apartment and fulfill all the dirty promises Sam’s breathy voice had implied on the phone earlier. 

  
Dean was understandably homicidal when one deputy wouldn’t leave him alone long enough to sneak out early. 

“Look, Dan--,” Dean interrupted, hand raised to stave off the large stack of papers the deputy was determined to put on his desk. 

“Deputy Smith, please, Sheriff Winchester,” Dan snapped, face contorting into a sneer. The guy was somewhere around Sam and Dean’s age, but it was hard to tell, his handsome face carrying wrinkles around his forehead and mouth that added years his eyes didn’t show. He had bright blond hair and sharp blue eyes that conveyed clearly that he was not happy with Dean as the new sheriff. 

“Deputy Smith,” Dean corrected between his teeth. Deputy Smith set the stack of folders on the desk with a condemning thunk and Dean’s shoulders slumped in defeat. 

“These have to be done before you leave,” Deputy Smith said sternly. “You’re behind as it is and this back up will clog up the system.” His lips thinned. “This is important. You act like you’ve never been in a sheriff’s office before.” 

Dean squared his shoulders indignantly, refusing to be intimidated by the man in front of him. “If you don’t like the way I run things, son, then maybe you should have applied for the sheriff position,” Dean pointed out and Deputy Smith actually blushed with a mix of embarrassment and fury. 

“Sheriff Winchester --” Deputy Smith was cut off when the office swung open and Sam walked in. 

“Hey, Dean,” Sam greeted, the huskiness from earlier still lingering and deepening the baritone. Dean shifted in his seat to ease the sudden ache between his legs and Sam smiled knowingly at his squirm. 

“Sammy.” Dean answered, voice gravelly and strained. He cleared and nodded towards Deputy Smith who had finally stopped nagging in favor of staring dazedly at Sam. “This is Deputy Smith.” 

Sam smiled warmly at the handsome deputy and held out his hand. “Sam Winchester. Dean’s brother.” 

Deputy Smith seemed to be struck mute, something Dean hoped would last. Shaking Sam’s outstretched hand, grip lingering slightly longer than necessary, Deputy Smith seemed to recover his ability to speak. “Very nice to meet you, Sam.” 

Dean arched an eyebrow in the deputy’s direction. Was Smith trying to use a seductive voice? 

“Likewise, Deputy Smith,” Sam drawled casually, tossing his coat over one of the leather chairs. He stepped back and sat sideways on the edge of Dean’s desk, gracing Dean with a glimpse of his smooth, dark skin at his lower back where his shirt rode up and his jeans rode down with the movement. 

Sam was wearing his nice jeans, darker than the ones he usually hunted in and a size that actually fit him, the material slung low on his hips and hugging his ass. Dean knew from experience his thin, charcoal gray t-shirt was incredibly soft and clingy, showcasing Sam’s shoulders and chest. It wasn’t particularly long, barely kissing the waistband of Sam’s jeans, and gifted any observer with a glimpse of Sam’s honey skin if he so much as breathed. It was Dean’s favorite shirt on Sam and with the way that Deputy Smith was staring it seemed it was the blonde man’s as well. 

Deputy Smith’s eyes blatantly roved over Sam’s body. “Please, call me Dan. What brings you here?” 

_Call me Dan?_ What happened to Deputy Smith?

Sam smiled uncomfortably. He was aware of the deputy’s obvious interest, but, instead of being flattered by the attention, the blatant staring made the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck rise. 

“I was gonna get Dean here to treat me to an early dinner to celebrate my new job at the school.” 

Smith leaned his hip against the edge of Dean’s desk, moving gradually into Sam’s space, and smirked roguishly. “Congratulations, that is cause for celebration.” The deputy’s eyes roamed up and down Sam’s body again. “Probably need to celebrate twice, for good measure. Can I take you for drinks sometime?” 

Sam’s eyes widened marginally, caught off guard by the offer. A shiver worked its way up his spine and he shifted back slightly to increase the space between him and the over eager policeman. 

Dean was getting a little worried. If Sam had a thing for a man in uniform, would he be able to resist Deputy Smith? He shook his head, swallowing the jealous urge to lay claim to Sam. 

Sam fixed a wide smile on his face. “I’ll think about it, Dan,” he said and Smith grinned confidently. 

Grabbing his coat from the back of his chair and tucking the copied files under its folds, Dean cleared his throat and fixed Smith with a hard stare. “All right, E-Harmony. Is that all, Deputy?” He deadpanned and the deputy swallowed, apparently remembering that his boss and Sam’s brother was still in the room. He pushed off from Dean’s desk and nodded shakily. 

“That’s all, sir,” he shot a quick wink at Sam. “Pleasure meeting you, Sam.” Sam smiled and nodded at the man as the door closed behind him. 

Sam blew out a breath and turned back to Dean. His big brother was back in his chair, eyebrows knit in an angry scowl. “Jealous, Dean?” 

Bottle green eyes zeroed in on him and Sam swallowed but met the gaze bravely. “Yes,” Dean answered honestly. “You gonna cancel dinner on me in favor of drinks with Deputy Snob?” It was meant to be terse but it came out more like a whine, much to Dean’s consternation. Sam leaned in over the desk, his face serious and eyes smoldering. 

“Dean,” Sam said slowly like his big brother was mentally challenged. “If you don’t lock the door and shut the blinds in the next five seconds we’re both going to be arrested for incest and indecent exposure.” 

Dean just stared at Sam. “I thought…dinner…?” 

Sam raised an eyebrow and a heady breath escaped his pink, parted lips. “Think of this as an appetizer.” 

“Oh,” Dean mumbled. He dropped his coat and the hidden folders on his chair and quickly moved to the door, poking his head out. “Big call. Important sheriff business. Don’t disturb!” He called out before shutting the door and locking it, blinds slamming shut a moment later. 

Sam was seated on his desk, legs spread and hanging off the edge. He was leaning back on his elbows, across all of the folders that Deputy Call-Me-Dan Smith had dropped there. Sam offered Dean a cocky smirk that was decidedly naughty. “There a problem, Sheriff?” 

Before Dean could get into character he gave Sam a questioning look as he approached. “What do you want?” 

Sam didn’t even have to think about it. “Right here, on this desk. You keep your uniform. My clothes aren’t really necessary.” 

Dean’s lower stomach clenched furiously with excitement. He slipped into character seamlessly and gave Sam a frown and a stern expression. “That’s lewd and lascivious behavior, young man.” 

Sam rolled his hips and let his head fall back, revealing his long, tantalizing throat. He looked at Dean from beneath dark lashes and shrugged as much as his shoulders would allow. “Guess you’ll have to arrest me, Sheriff.” 

Sam watched Dean’s eyes go impossibly dark at the suggestion as he stepped between Sam’s legs. “Stand up.” Dean ordered gruffly and Sam obeyed quickly, standing on shaky legs. “I’m going to have to do a strip search. Make sure you’re not hiding any,” green eyes dropped to Sam’s crotch. “weapons. Remove your shirt.” 

Sam’s eyes were heavy with lust but he tried to remain in character and widen them in surprise and shyness. He slowly peeled off his shirt, which was now sticking to him with sweat, and folded it messily. He laid it beside him on Dean’s desk, eying the cuffs Dean’d just produced from his belt with an unreadable expression. Dean took one sinewy wrist and closed a cuff around it, watching Sam’s face carefully for any sign of discomfort. Sam’s mouth parted and a pink tongue darted out to lick his lips, breaths speeding. Dean closed Sam’s other wrist in the handcuffs and ran a finger between the metal and Sam’s skin to make sure they were loose. 

Sam’s heartbeat was fast and erratic, his chest pistoning with each panted breath. He willed control over his body, forced his anxiety down and his breathing to calm. A constant mantra of _It’s Dean. It’s Dean_. ran through his head, the repetition and reassurance soothing his wracked nerves.

Dean massaged Sam’s chest and thumbed his nipples. Sam gasped, hazel eyes rolling up at the familiar feel of calloused skin caressing him. Dean backed Sam up a step and when the edge of the desk hit Sam’s upper thighs he collapsed onto it. 

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” Dean continued the charade, stepping further between Sam’s legs to let his erection rest on Sam’s lower stomach where he could rut lazily against it. 

“Take off your pants.” Dean commanded and Sam struggled to pop the button with the handcuffs on, grimace crossing his face when the metal clinked softly. He toed off his shoes and socks, his dazed eyes not straying from Dean, and hissed as he carefully and slowly pulled down the zipper. Dean groaned when he saw Sam wasn’t wearing underwear. Dean gripped himself hard, feeling his balls tighten threateningly. 

Sam kicked off his jeans, leaning back against the desk. Dean ran his hands up and down Sam’s hips, ghosted over his groin, and rubbed his inner thighs. Sam shuddered and moaned. “Dean, please, De,” he begged and Dean gripped the base of Sam’s cock staving off Sam’s orgasm. 

“You have the right to remain silent,” Dean repeated because he couldn’t remember the rest of the Miranda warning. His fingers played with Sam’s balls, dipping behind them to alternatively put pressure to his furled entrance then back off with feather light touches. He panted harshly, grabbing at Dean’s leather belt with his cuffed hands, cock angry red and leaking pre-cum in pearly white drops. Dean leaned in close and felt Sam tremble hard against him. 

“Look at you, baby. So swollen and hard for me.” Dean whispered and his breath against Sam’s ear caused the younger man to whimper, his body jerking helplessly. “Going to search you thoroughly,” Dean whispered and Sam thought that shouldn’t sound so seductive. “Take me out, Sammy.” 

Sam caressed Dean’s cock through the pants, the flesh hot even through the material. He was clumsy with the belt and buttons, so turned on he couldn’t control his nerves and muscles. Peeling back Dean’s pants to make more room, Sam carefully pulled the velvet-hard flesh out. Dean was red, veins popping out, swollen so big that Sam couldn’t help but marvel. He licked his lips, wanting a taste, wanting the flavor of Dean’s musk and salty skin on his tongue. 

Dean moaned into Sam’s ear. “Look at you, so hungry for it. So hungry for me, darlin’.” 

“Yes,” Sam cried and prayed into Dean’s hair. His hands were shakily and lightly stroking Dean, the handcuffs tinkling as he moved. 

“Tied up and willing,” Dean continued, missing the shudder that wracked Sam at the words. “Ready for anything, baby boy.” He pulled on Sam’s balls and Sam bucked and cried out, forcing Dean to put his mouth over Sam’s to muffle the sound in their first kiss this whole session. Dean pulled back, pressing his lips to the corner of Sam’s mouth and shushing him. “Sammy, Sammy. Can’t make any noise, Sammy,” he chided in a breathy, sing-song whisper and Sam quaked, squeezing his eyes tight. When he opened them again his eyes were wet with desperation and want, little salty droplets clinging to his lashes. 

“Turn around, lay over the desk.” Dean ordered in a whiskey-rough voice. Sam rushed to comply, moving through a wave of vertigo as he turned too fast. He lay out over the desk, across Deputy Smith’s official papers and Dean’s desk calendar. He gripped the edge with his cuffed hands, ignoring the cold bite of metal on his skin, and cradled his forehead on top of his wrists. His painfully hard cock was trapped between his body and the desk and Sam groaned at the unsatisfying pressure. 

Dean allowed himself to admire the body sprawled out before him for only a second, knowing if he didn’t get this show on the road the ending would be anti-climactic. That was something Dean didn’t want. Somewhere along the line, Sam’s little fetish became Dean’s fantasy and he wanted it to be fulfilling for both of them. Sam’s perfect, round ass was spread before him, his hole winking and twitching in invitation. 

Dean ran a hand down Sam’s back, following the base of Sam’s spine to his crack and easing the tip of one finger into his hole. Looking for Sam’s pants, sure the kid had packed some lube, Dean was surprised to find Sam’s opening already loose and slick. 

“Baby boy,” he gasped out, leaning his forehead in the middle of Sam’s back and squeezing his eyes shut. “Sammy. Did you prepare yourself for me?”

“Yes,” Sam whispered into his arms. “Laid down on our bed—on our black sheets,” he croaked and he sounded so fucked out that Dean let out his own whimper. “Worked myself open thinking about you in that fucking uniform,” Sam panted, hips rolling down against the hard surface of the desk. “A-about your lips wrapped around my cock.” 

Dean choked and jerked, a needy whine slipping from his mouth and spilling across Sam’s back. “Did you cum, Sam?” Dean’s voice was gritty and dusty like tires over a rocky dirt road. 

“No,” Sam answered back just as hoarsely. “Almost did, but wanted to be hard for you. Slicked open and hard for Sheriff Winchester.” 

“God, Sammy. You’re going to kill me,” Dean groaned brokenly as he leaned back and reinserted his finger into Sam’s hole. Sam moaned, tightening his muscles around the intrusion, pulling Dean’s finger inside his body. 

“You’re so loose, Sam,” Dean huffed, adding another finger. He fucked in and out, getting tantalizingly close to Sam’s prostate but purposefully avoiding it. “I should draw this out, darlin’. Pay you back for teasing me over the phone today.” 

Sam shook his head from side to side, sweat-damp hair flinging with the motion, hips shifting to get the internal touch where he wanted it.

“I won’t, though.” Dean added a third finger just as easily as the rest. He fucked in and out of Sam and his little brother groaned, echoing “De” and “love” in this melodic whisper that sounded like a broken off piece of hallelujah. 

“Can we add a fourth finger, Sammy?” Dean cooed. “You’re so open and ready, I think we can.” 

“Yes. Anything, Dean. Please!” Sam begged near tears because Dean still hadn’t touched Sam’s prostate. Dean added a fourth finger, entering it slower than the others.

Dean groaned at the sight of his fingers disappearing into Sam’s willing and eager body. His own skin was sweaty, chafing against the material of his uniform. “You’re so on edge, Sammy,” Dean crooned as he eased one finger out after another. “So close.” 

“Please Dean, God. Please,” he turned his head to the side and looked at Dean awkwardly from over his shoulder. Just the sight of his brother in uniform sent yet another jolt of pleasure through him and Sam trembled hard. 

Dean smeared the slick on his fingers over his cock, hissing at the stimulation to the sensitive skin. He saw hazel eyes peering at him from over a tanned shoulder. “You’re so close I think you will cum without either of us touching your cock.”

He breeched the outer ring of muscle, only the head of his dick encased in Sam’s slick heat. He didn’t push in further—not out of self-restraint but because he wanted to relish in Sam’s answering, needy moan. “What do you think, Sam?” 

“Yes, Dean,” Sam babbled, not really sure what he was agreeing to. He clenched his muscles again, trying to lure Dean inside. 

Dean pushed steadily, sheathing himself in Sam’s welcoming body, and closed his eyes as he drowned in sensation. 

Sam was finally complete, relishing the sweet, burn of Dean’s unlubed sex entering him. He clenched hard and Dean choked on his next breath. “Now, Dean, God. Please, love. Fuck me, De. Hard, please,” Sam jabbered breathlessly. 

Dean responded to the desperation in Sam’s voice, hips pistoning rhythmically and when he found Sam’s prostate he hit it every time, hard and fast, almost brutally. 

Sam almost cried out but bit his lip before he could utter more than a gasp. Dean’s rough pace was perfect, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in, deep and hard. He reveled in the bite of the metal teeth of Dean’s zipper against his ass and slap of Dean’s belt on his skin. Sam held on to the desk, his whole body shifting back and forth with the force of Dean’s thrusts. He concentrated on the sound of their stilted breaths and the slick noises of their bodies meeting and separating to distract him from the soft clinks of his bound hands as he fought to keep his grasp on the desk edge. Sam tried hard to keep his eyes open, to see Dean looming behind him in his cut uniform, but they finally rolled back of their own accord. He turned his head, biting into the metal cuffs to have something to do with his mouth except scream. 

Dean heard Sam’s teeth clacking against the metal handcuffs through his haze and knew Sam was close. “So beautiful, Baby Boy. Mine. Can’t get this from Deputy Dan-fucking Smith,” he growled. 

Sam pleas were muffled by his wrists and the cuffs. “So big, so full in me. God, De, never want you to stop. Harder, De. Almost there.” 

Dean could only make out some of what Sam said through the sound of blood rushing past his ears. He gripped Sam’s hips and thrust impossibly faster. “Yeah, yeah Sammy…” Dean’s balls tightened and his stomach dropped with the same sensation he got when he was on the edge of a cliff. 

“Love you so much, De,” Sam’s panted, biting down harder on the metal when Dean hit the bundle of nerves inside him harder and faster. 

“Love you, Sammy,” Dean whispered back. He opened his eyes and focused in on Sam’s body, staring hard so as not to miss anything. “Come on, baby. You’re ready. Cum for me, now, Sammy.” 

Sam stifled a scream in the backs of his hands as he released hard, pumping hot on the desk and his stomach. 

Dean bit his lip as he watched Sam, little brother clenching so hard it pulled Dean’s orgasm from him. His whole body tensed through the first onslaught and a new damp sweat broke out on his skin. He lazily thrust, letting his brother’s still clenching and relaxing muscles milk him until he was spent. He stayed buried in Sam’s wet heat, trying to catch his breath. 

Gradually, when the earth didn’t feel like it was flying from Sam, he lifted his head, breathing heavily. Dean hadn’t moved and Sam loved the feeling of being full and complete. Dean looked fucked out and hazy, regarding Sam so tenderly that Sam couldn’t help but blush and smile at him. 

Sam’s sweet smile made Dean’s heart that much more satisfied and content. He leaned over and kissed Sam’s back as he eased out, his heart breaking a little when he heard Sam moan in discomfort. 

He helped Sam stand, catching the taller man when Sam’s shaky legs faltered. He placed soft kisses on Sam’s neck and shoulders, carefully pulling off any papers stuck to Sam’s torso. “So good, Sammy. My beautiful baby boy,” Dean crooned into Sam’s ear. 

Sam smiled softly as Dean turned him around and gently let go. Dean unbuttoned his uniform shirt, removing his undershirt to gently wipe Sam’s stomach and cock while Sam peppered a series of loving kisses across his lips and nose. 

Sam dug into the pocket of Dean’s undone jeans and retrieved his key chain. Flicking through the literal keys to the city, he found the one to the cuffs and unlocked them. He sighed deeply as the loose circlets dropped to the desk, long fingers unconsciously tracing the place where the restraints had touched his skin. 

He took the shirt and wiped off his brother’s dick before setting the stained article down on the desk to carefully tuck Dean’s sensitive flesh back into his boxers. He pressed a kiss to Dean’s lips then zipped Dean back up and buckled his belt. He gently patted Dean’s crotch once his pants were properly redone, a sated, playful smile on his face. 

Dean stared at Sam fondly; they’d come a long way. When they first started…this, Dean had been closed off – unsure, guilty, cold, angry – fear of Dad and taking advantage of Sam overwhelming the affection he felt. Sam hadn’t been any better – skittish and hesitant – and alternated between pushing Dean away and clinging to him like a baby. 

The crash changed all that. Dying gave you a new appreciation for the impermanence of life, that everything could be taken away in seconds. After their miraculous resurrection, they were more open with each other. When Sam woke up in that hospital bed to Dean’s relieved eyes, they made an unspoken agreement to let whatever it was between them happen and love every minute of it. 

Dean wiped the mess off of the desk while Sam searched for his discarded jeans, finding them halfway under the kneehole of the desk. Hopping on one foot then the other, he tugged them up his long legs. 

“I like these jeans,” Dean broke the silence, his voice slow and soft, and stepped in front of Sam, tugging the open flaps playfully. “They actually fit.”

Sam smiled as Dean buttoned him and pulled Dean in for a soft brush of lips. He caressed his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone. “Well, the plan was to seduce you.” 

Dean grinned so wide the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkled and Sam couldn’t resist, leaning in to kiss both patches of smile lines. Dean caught his mouth and they kissed languidly for a few minutes, just getting lost in each other. Dean eventually pulled back and pushed Sam to sit down, tossing his socks and boots at his feet. 

Sam laughed, one of his socks veering off course and snagging on the drawer pull on the desk. Dean leaned in to lick one of Sam’s dimples and Sam just chuckled, roughly running his hand through Dean’s hair. “Love it when you smile,” Dean whispered into Sam’s ear and then reached back for Sam’s folded shirt. He unfolded the soft material and slipped it over Sam’s head, a reminder to both of them of how Dean used to do this when Sam was little. 

Sam kissed Dean and pulled back, looking around him ruefully. “You have a couple of ruined files,” Sam said sheepishly, snatching the dangling sock and crossing his legs to slip it on his foot. 

Dean chuckled. “Good. Way too much paperwork in this job. I thought it was going to be car chases and bank robberies.” 

Sam tightened the laces on his boots then helped Dean clean up. “But you got kangaroos and drunk kids?” 

Dean sighed dramatically as he scooped the stained papers and post-it notes into the trash. The stack of files that Deputy Smith gave him weren’t touched much to Dean’s chagrin. He was looking forward to giving them back to the little bastard that had dared to flirt with his Sammy and letting the deputy cook up his own explanations for their messy state. 

“Dean?” Sam was still talking quietly, as if he was afraid to break the peaceful atmosphere. 

Dean’s head snapped up from his diabolical contemplation of Deputy Smith and grinned sheepishly at Sam. He grabbed his coat and the files, bundled up the dirty shirt and tucked it under his arm. Sam got his coat on and Dean grabbed his hand for a moment before letting go, turning off the light and leaving the office. 

Outside, tiny droplets of rain dotted their faces, necks, and hands. They made it to the Impala before the sky opened up and poured. The roar of the Impala mixed with the percussion of rain and Sam had to resist the urge to immediately fall asleep, the combination like a lullaby to him.

Five o’clock traffic was long gone and the night was coming early due to the heavy cloud cover and rain. Dean blindly parked in their apartment parking lot because Sam obstructed his vision—not that he was complaining because Sam’s hot tongue over his pulse made it feel like the whole world was synchronized with his heartbeat. Dean looked around – the parking lot was empty and they weren’t near any lights or apartment windows. 

Dean was pushed against the door, Sam straddling him like he did yesterday in the school parking lot.

“This going to be a new parking lot ritual for us, baby boy?” 

Sam pulled back, rubbing Dean’s lips with his thumb unable to be out of contact. “It would be an admirable goal,” Sam agreed. 

Sam dove back in, lips crashing against Dean’s in a desperate, hungry kiss. Long fingers dug into Dean’s back, nails biting through the polyester of his police uniform as Sam clung to him like he would be ripped away at any moment. Or like he would walk away.

Dean’s hands cupped the muscled rounds of Sam’s shoulders, softly pushing. Sam matched force with force, each gentle nudge away met with an equally mild pull together. 

“S’m,” he managed when Sam was forced to stop for air, lips stilling against their mate and breaths panted across the swollen skin. “Sammy,” he gasped, Sam’s attention diverting to nibble and lick along the sensitive places he knew so well.

Rolling his eyes, allowing himself a brief moment to enjoy Sam’s devotion, Dean tightened his grip on his brother’s shoulders and forced him back. “Sammy,” he tried again, looking into lust blown hazel, “what’s going on?”

“I would think it was pretty obvious,” Sam smirked, hand cupping Dean through the restricting fabric of his pants. Dean’s hands loosened their hold as pleasure zinged through his body and Sam dipped past the weakened restraints to pepper open-mouthed kisses long Dean’s stubbled jaw.

“Not that I, uh, don’t appreciate the enthusiasm and being presented, oh God right there, with my two favorites things at the same time,” he cradled Sam’s neck in his hands and pulled Sam’s lips from his throat, “something’s up. You’re not acting like yourself. What’s the matter?” He ran the pad of his thumb over Sam’s cheekbone.

“N-nothing,” Sam looked down, settling back on his heels. 

“Sam,” Dean voice was gentle with an underlying current that left no confusion that he expected a more truthful answer.

“Nothing, really,” he stuck the tip of his pinky finger through one of the buttonholes on his shirt. He looked up and sighed at Dean’s unimpressed eyebrow. “I just…” he trailed off, “maybe it’s being back here,” understatement, “or I need a break or I don’t know. I just feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. Like I said you and the Impala are stuff fantasies are made of, but maybe another time when we’re both...more relaxed.” He dipped his head to meet Sam’s downturned eyes.

Sam slid off Dean’s lap, dropping back into his seat. A light fog, created by their warm breath, obscured the rain dotted windshield and they sat in silence for a few minutes listening to the pinging of the rain on the Impala’s roof.

“And pie.”

“What?” Dean looked over, brows drawn together in confusion.

“Me, the Impala and pie,” Sam clarified simply, one side of his mouth quirking up, waiting for Dean’s mind to supply him with a visual. 

An image of Sam spread across the hood of the Impala, with apple pie, body heat warm and sticky on his skin, flashed to the front of Dean’s mind. “Oh God,” his cock twitched and he pressed a hand into his crotch. “You’re going to kill me. Tomorrow, Sam? Impala pie-sex. Tomorrow?” He whined. 

Dean grinned boyishly and Sam chuckled, leaning over to place a chaste kiss to his brother’s mouth. 

“After this hunt’s over. That’s how we’ll begin our vacation.” He dropped another kiss to Dean’s lips, looking out the passenger window at the slackening rain. “Let’s go upstairs. We still have the pie I bought yesterday and I rented the new Superman movie,” he shoved the door open and sprinted through the lingering rain.

Later, after a dinner of frozen lasagna, they were curled up on the couch, Sam laying back in the vee of Dean’s legs watching the Man of Steel save the day. Dean looked around, the lights were dim and they were covered in the blanket from the bed, and huffed a small laugh at the domesticity of it all. It was nice. 

The flickering light of the TV glinted off his police issue 9mm on the coffee table, drawing his eye to his nightstick and handcuffs lying next to it. A shiver ran down his spine at the memory of Sam’s thin wrists circled by that pair of silver rings. It still took him by surprise to think that Sam planned the whole office sex thing. Hell, he’d even come prepared. Dean squirmed, trying to adjust his filling cock.

“You okay back there?” Sam’s smile was evident in his voice as he wiggled to press his back against Dean’s increasing need.

“Just thinking about earlier,” he whispered huskily, hand slipping under Sam’s shirt to smooth over toned skin. Dean rutted into the hard muscles of Sam’s back. “Thought about this morning all day today. About how much I wanted to skip work and just stay here with you, in you.” 

Sam curled his fingers around himself over the soft cotton of his pants, the fabric adding a new degree of texture to the action. Dean was panting in his ear, his own desire mounting with Sam’s. “What can I say, I love a man in uniform,” he gasped out, breath warm against his brother’s face.

Dean’s hand moved, gently smacking Sam’s hand away to slip under Sam’s sweats and boxers to wrap around the blood warmed skin. He stroked Sam, slow but firm, reveling in the moans that it wrought from Sam’s lips. His other hand came up to cup the younger man’s throat, long fingers pressing gently into the corners of Sam’s jaw to turn his head for a kiss. Sam opened his mouth to Dean’s insistent tongue. Dean let out a moan that morphed quickly into a whimper when Sam ground back against him. 

“Please, love.” Sam wheezed out. 

“I’ve got you, Sammy. I’ve got you,” he babbled. “I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.”

Dean’s hand moved against Sam’s hardened flesh and Sam rolled his body down against Dean desperately as their mouth moved in the perfect rhythm of old lovers. Dean ran his thumb over the leaking slit of Sam’s cock, gathering the slick to ease his motions, and Sam jolted, hips leaving the couch before dropping to move erratically down on Dean’s crotch.

“De, De!” Sam cried out, loud like he couldn’t be in Dean’s office, and writhed, panting out Dean’s name between heaving breaths. 

“Sh, baby boy.” Dean whispered. He couldn’t take his eyes off his little brother, off the look of ecstasy on Sam’s face. “I got you,” he repeated. 

“Yes,” Sam gasped, almost delirious from his brother’s talented hands. His fingers dug mercilessly into Dean’s legs, hard enough to bruise, and that thought forced another cry of pleasure from Sam’s lips. Dean marked as his, his to have.

“You have me,” Dean promised, almost as if reading his mind. “I have you. 

Dean kissed Sam, delving into his mouth a couple of times before he let Sam’s tongue enter and explore. Sam brought his hand up and curled it around the back of Dean’s neck, running fingers through Dean’s hair then twisting them in the short locks. Sam felt his orgasm, building and bubbling low in his stomach. 

Dean tugged once more, fingers cupping Sam’s balls on the downstroke. “All mine,” he growled, low in Sam’s ear and Sam fell into the welcoming abyss of his orgasm. His body writhed out of his control, arching and twisting with the rush of pleasure before settling limply on his brother.

Dean felt like he might die if he didn’t get the pressure or the friction he needed, so he spanned his hands across Sam’s pelvis and rocked the pliant body above him down harder and faster. His arms trembled with the strain and lust and his hips bucked of their own accord. Sam turned his head into Dean’s neck again and suddenly bit down hard on the muscles running up the vertical column. Dean’s orgasm crashed into him, his release soaking his pants and running warm then cool over his skin.   
  
Dean felt Sam’s heart hammering where his little brother’s back is pressed tightly against his chest. Dean bit lightly into the exposed junction between Sam’s neck and shoulder, tasting dried rain water, sweat, and Sam. 

“Love you, De,” Sam slurred, blissful and sated. 

Dean swallowed and ran his fingers through Sam’s hair, rocking back and forth with his little brother held safe in his arms. The credits were rolling and Dean has no clue what happened in the movie but he could care less. “Love you too, Sammy.” 

Sam sighed and his eyes started to droop, post-orgasm drowsiness setting in. “Come on, Sammy, let’s go get comfortable in bed,” Dean laughed when Sam’s hand blindly reached back to find Dean’s face and covered it. 

“Shh,” Sam grumbled. “’m comfortable.” He snuggled down for emphasis. 

“We gotta clean up,” Dean chuckled, shifting his legs and wrinkling at the unpleasant wetness in his pants. “Come on, Sammy.” Sam huffed, kissing the corner of Dean’s mouth. 

Sam winced when Dean helped him up, guiding him down the hall to their bedroom. He chuckled when Dean laid him on the bed with a flourish. “Be right back,” Dean promised, going to the bathroom to get a warm washcloth. 

Sam stayed awake while Dean cleaned them both, but when Dean returned from disposing of the dirty washcloth Sam was out. He was curled on his side, curls falling about his face. Dean rolled his eyes affectionately and covered Sam up, placing a kiss on his nose. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ*  
> Another co-written chapter, but with a more and more of my influence.

Sleep was pulling at Dean, too. A kangaroo chase and three orgasms in one day did that to man, he supposed. His stomach rumbled so he wandered to the kitchen in search of a snack. He was leaning against the counter, half-way through his bowl of Lucky Charms, thinking life couldn’t get much better than sex with Sam and Lucky Charms when Castiel appeared with a rush of air and the sound of fluttering wings. 

Dean startled. “Holy shit, Cas!” he exclaimed, but not loud enough to wake Sam. “I’m gonna attach a bell around you or something!”

Castiel looked intrigued. “For what purpose?” 

“Because you scare the hell out of me, just popping in like that! Can’t you knock? Or call before you come?” he groused around a mouthful of cereal. 

“I can knock,” the angel said. “But I do not wish to. I find amusement in your reactions when I startle you.”   
  
Dean stared open-mouthed at Castiel, milk dribbling down his chin. He swallowed. “Did you – did you just crack a joke?” 

Castiel cocked his head to the side and gave Dean a puzzled expression. “You are without clothing,” the angel observed. 

“Yes. Yes I am,” he agreed and poured more cereal in his bowl. 

“I understood that it was proper to wear clothing at all times outside of bathing and copulation.” Castiel was curious at this new change of events. Maybe his information gathering had been faulty?

“It makes me feel free.” 

Castiel was silent for a lengthy measure before frowning. “If humans feel confined and hindered by their clothing, then why do they wear clothes?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m not exactly a normal human so I can’t answer these things.” I mean, why’s the sky blue? No one can really answer weird questions like these.”

Castiel felt the need to clarify. “Actually, the sky is blue because shorter wave lengths of light are absorbed by—“

“Cas,” Dean interrupted, annoyed. “I don’t want to know,” He paused. “Did Sam tell you that?” 

Castiel shook his head. “Discovery Channel.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sam gets you hooked on the Discovery Channel but I can’t get you into Oprah?” 

Castiel looked around the area. “Where is Sam?” 

Dean drained the milk from his bowl and placed it in the sink. He yawned as he put away the cereal and milk. “Asleep. Where I want to be. You here for a reason? Something wrong?” 

Castiel nodded minutely. “Have you found anything, yet?” 

Dean shook his head in the negative. “No. Nothing new, anyway. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Sam about what he found at the library though. Sam’s starting his job at the school tomorrow, so maybe we’ll get some new intel.” 

Castiel frowned solemnly. “I would like to prevent the next death and solve this case. Something in the atmosphere is very troubling.” 

Dean sighed. “We don’t want anyone else to die, either. We’ll tell you what we got so far tomorrow morning.” 

Castiel nodded but lingered and Dean raised an impatient eyebrow at him. “Have you noticed that something is bothering your brother, Dean?” 

Dean frowned, stunned. He hadn’t noticed anything other than his little brother’s new sexual appetite and the odd reaction when he found out they were returning to Pike Creek. Dean didn’t remember much about their first stay here outside the details of the hunt. Everyone had been tense with the possibility that it could be the thing that killed mom, but it was just another false lead. Some high school kid messing with things he didn’t understand. What Dean did recall with perfect clarity was Sam’s intense dislike of Dad’s Marine buddy, Nathan Schneider. Dean winced. He’d forgotten to tell Sam that they’re going to have Nathan over for a cookout and some beer later this week. He hoped Sam had gotten over whatever it was he had against the man. 

Speaking of food, Dean suddenly remembered that Sam had picked at his dinner more than he ate it. “Now that you mention it, Sam hasn’t really been eating much. It’s usually a sign that something’s going on in that head of his. He’s been sleeping good, though. He has bad dreams when he’s upset about something.” He threw a suspicious and worried look at the angel. “Why do you ask?” 

Castiel frowned. “I do not know. I am sensing an unusual amount of anxiety from Sam, but nothing alarming.” The angel remembered his promise to Sam earlier and gave Dean a small smile. “I am sure that your brother trusts us both enough to come to one of us if something is truly troubling him.” 

Dean seemed reassured, pouring himself a half a glass of water to wash away the sticky sweet milk residue in his mouth. “You’re right,” Dean agreed. “We’re better at that whole ‘keeping secrets’ thing. I’ll keep an eye out.” He brought the glass to his lips. “See yah in the mornin’, Cas.” He started to drink. 

Castiel nodded, his stoic face a picture of solemnity. “I will see you in the morning, idjit.” 

Castiel disappeared and Dean choked and spluttered on his water. 

***

Sam was skittish on his first day of work, jumping at shadows and sudden sounds. Nerves raw, he spent most of the day snapping at everyone with his door locked. He really hadn’t thought this through. 

He passed the morning looking through the files of the juniors and seniors to familiarize himself with them and scheduling times when they could come to discuss their futures. There was a stack of college brochures and information on scholarships on his desk, as well as stacks of SAT and ACT prep books. Sam felt trapped in his cramped, windowless office, remembering it much larger eight years ago. The small room consisted of a massive desk, a bookcase full of college-related material, and two ugly chairs for the visiting students to sit in. It looked exactly the same as the last time he was in here.

_“Sam, have a seat.” The guidance counselor, Ms. Hill the nameplate read, motioned to one of the vacant chairs, both showing their age with weathered wood and threadbare upholstery._

_“Am I in trouble?” Sam sat on the sturdier of the two chairs, brows scrunched in confusion. Being called into the guidance counselor’s office never boded well and he wondered if they’d have time to pack before CPS was knocking on the door._

_“No, of course not. I like to meet with all our transfer students during their first few weeks to see how they are adjusting to the new school and routines.” She smiled at him warmly. She was young, mid-twenties, and obviously new to her profession, the quality of her smile his biggest indication. It hadn’t taken on the saccharine sheen of those who’d spent too many years trying to reach today’s youth only to be perpetually disappointed._

_“Oh! Uh, I’m fine. Was lost for a couple of days, but everyone’s been real nice and helped me out.” He eyed her diploma behind the desk, zeroing in on the graduation date – June 1999._

_“That’s good to know,” she laughed, opening a thick folder on her desk, “I reviewed your transcripts. I must say I’m impressed. Straight As despite your erratic attendance is quite commendable.” She flipped through the pages before looking back up at him._

_“Um, thanks?” He curled his fingers into the seam running down the outside of his jeans’ leg, fingernail of his index finger scratching over a spot where the stitching was coming loose._

_“You’re welcome?” She tilted her head, lilting her voice at the end to mimic his unsure response. “I didn’t see anything in here from your previous counselors regarding college planning.”_

_“I-I’ve never,” Sam stammered then cleared his throat, palms breaking into a flash sweat. “I’m not going to college.”_

_“What do you mean?” Ms. Hill asked, face carefully blank, judgment being reserved for the moment. “If it’s about tuition, Sam, I can’t see scholarships being an issue.”_

_“No, it’s not about money. I’m supposed to take over the family business.” Sam ran his hands over his thighs to wick some of sweat slicking his skin._

_“Supposed to?” She raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow. “Is that what you want to do, Sam?”_

_“I-I,” Sam bowed his head, shaking it slightly._

_Ms. Hill blew out a long breath and leaned back in her office chair. She watched him carefully for a few minutes then sat forward, elbows braced on the desk and hands folded over his academic file. “Sam, each person has to decide what they want out of life for themselves. It’s honorable of you to want to please your family by continuing their legacy, but if it’s not what you want then you’re doing yourself a great disservice. I’m not trying to cause problems for you at home, I just want you to be sure that,” she looked down at the first page of his file, “auto repair is what you really want to do. The rest of your life is a long time to be miserable.”_

_Sam nodded, fingers gripping his knees. “I’ll think about it,” he placated. She didn’t understand the circumstances surrounding his lack of collegiate ambition and there was no way to explain that didn’t end up with him a ward of the state. “Thanks,” he stood, hefting his backpack over his shoulder._

_“Here,” she called as he turned to leave. “At least take these.” She gathered a stack of brightly colored brochures, detailing everything from taking the SATs to picking the perfect school, and thrust them into his hands. “If you have any questions, feel free to come by and we’ll talk.”_

_Ducking his head in acknowledgement, Sam left the small office, shoving the glossy pamphlets deep in his bag._

  
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, pressing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. Sam swallowed, his leg bouncing nervously as he continued his perusal of the files he’d pulled on the victims.

Four students – one sophomore, two juniors, and one senior. Three male, one female. Victims one, three, four and five.

  
Peter Blackman, a junior, was the first victim and brother of the third. He was on the basketball team with scouts from three recent National Champion colleges watching him with serious interest. He had good grades, the promise of a full athletic ride on the horizon, and supportive parents. He’d slit his wrists.

Michael Blackman, the senior, was slated to be this year’s valedictorian. Student Body President, member of the National Honor Society and editor of the school paper. He’d already been offered full scholarships to Yale and Harvard and was waiting on answers from Duke and Stanford before he decided where to attend. He’d hung himself.

Sarah Astor, the one female and only sophomore, was the fourth victim. She was a mediocre student academically, but excelled in her art classes. Several of her paintings and charcoal sketches had won awards at local and state show. She was being raised by a single father, but whether he was divorced or her mother passed away Sam couldn’t be sure. She’d just accepted a summer internship to study in Rome. She’d stepped out in front of a car on her way home from school.

Scott Bradford, the other junior and the fifth victim, was the quintessential class clown and school troublemaker. His disciplinary record was impressive and dated back to elementary school. Stink bombs in assemblies, streaking at the homecoming game, coating all the doorknobs in Vaseline – no prank deemed too small or too outlandish. He’d fallen out of his second story bedroom window, breaking his neck.

A jock, a scholar, an artist and a goof.

He let out an explosive sigh, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. Biting his bottom lip, he swiveled toward the computer perched on the corner of his desk and logged onto the school’s website. The mouse cursor hovered over the “Meet the Faculty” link. Clicking the button, he scrolled past pictures of the core curriculum instructors, followed by the elective teachers, until he reached the images of the coaches. His stomach plummeted; Nathan Schneider stared out at him from the screen. The bell rang signaling lunch and the hall outside his door filled with the voices and movement of students hurrying to the cafeteria. Sam’s eyes flicked to the locked deadbolt, suddenly not hungry anymore. 

On Thursday, students started to trickle in. The principal had asked Sam to try to gauge their emotional response to the recent deaths which provided him with the opportunity to ask questions about the hunt. Of the five students he’d seen that morning, only one personally knew any of the victims, Peter Blackman. Joshua and Peter hadn’t been very close friends, but they had been friends. 

“What about the days leading up to his death? Did Peter act differently?” Sam asked. 

Sam easily recognized the emotions flickering over Joshua’s face, having seen them hundreds of times on people he interrogated – reticence to speak of the dead, reluctance to voice his feelings, remorse at the loss of a friend. He saw the moment Joshua realized this was his opportunity to talk to someone and get things off his chest – someone who’d just sit and listen. 

Joshua fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “I didn’t notice anything really. Greg—him and Pete were real close— he said something about Pete being on edge a few days before he died. I didn’t notice it, but me and Pete weren’t that close,” he shrugged again. “Greg didn’t say why.”   
  
Sam nodded and made a note to look up this Greg on the basketball roster. It looked like he could be a good lead. “Do you remember anything else?”

Joshua frowned, eyes narrowing in thought. “Well, for about a week before it happened, Pete missed P.E. class. He went to the nurse’s office a couple of times, I know because I took him there once. One time he had to make up a test. That one was legit because I remember Ms. Hill—she’s, uhm, she was the guidance counselor then—came down with him and handed Coach Schneider an excuse.” 

Sam flinched and Joshua shot him a confused look. Sam put on a weak smile. “So he missed gym class. You don’t think he was actually sick?” Joshua shook his head. “You said Ms. Hill? Were they close? She died a few days after your friend.” 

“Well, they spent a lot of time together at the beginning of the year, but that’s because Pete was trying to get his applications together. Pete’s really smart, probably the smartest guy on our team. He had to write all these essays and Ms. Hill would help edit them. For a couple of weeks I think he swung by her office for something at least once a day, but once he got accepted he didn’t even visit her, just said hey to her if he saw her around.” Joshua bit the ragged edge of a cut, expression unsure. “Is it true what they say? That it was spontaneous combustion?” 

“That’s the theory the police are going on.” He paused, considering the young man in front of him. “How are you doing, Joshua?” 

Joshua licked his lips and sighed, like he knew the question had been coming but still didn’t know how to answer it. “I’m okay. I mean, it makes you think about things like how you can go any minute. I just get scared sometimes.” He paused for a few seconds and then looked up at Sam with eyes that were suspiciously wet. Sam was kind of amazed. He knew it was easy for victims to talk to him for some reason, but in his experience it was harder to get teens to open up. 

“With Pete…we were friends, but we didn’t talk about anything personal. I don’t even really remember what college he got in to. But he had a good life, you know? His Mom and Dad were really cool—they would cook meals for us or host parties at their house. He had really good grades, you know? Most of us don’t really get good grades.” He gave Sam a diluted smile. “He’d been dating this girl for, like, two years. He got into a really good school and he had to work so hard with Ms. Hill to get into it because it was the school Megan got in. It’s like, really girly, man. He busted his ass to follow her.”

Sam made a note of Megan’s name. “And how did she feel about it?”

“Megan didn’t pressure him or anything. It’s kind of sick, really. She was trying to get him to choose a college first, saying she would follow him. When she got in he did all that to surprise her.” Joshua picked at the rip in the knee of his jeans. “We’re pretty sure he was gonna marry her sometime soon.” He sighed before going on. “I don’t know, man. Guy like that with everything going for him killing himself?” He waved his hand helplessly. “I mean, if he loses hope, what do the rest of us have?” 

  
That evening at five o’clock Sam gathered the copies he’d made of the student files on the victims along with pictures he’d found on a memorial page on the school’s website. Sam’s stomach turned with nausea as he looks at the faces of the victims. God, he hated it when kids were killed. 

He’d turned off the desk light when he heard the doorknob jiggle. Sam froze, his heart leaping in his throat. Waiting silently, his eyes focused on the brass circle. When nothing happened, he shook his head at his own ridiculousness. Locking his desk, Sam jolted as whoever was at the door started tugging hard at it. 

Silently and swiftly, Sam removed the wickedly curved knife from his waistband and crouched down. Quietly, he scuttled forward until he was squatting against the wall next to the door. The tugging stopped abruptly and Sam let out a slow breath of relief. It was probably the janitor trying to get in to get the trash or the principal searching for a file. Sam frowned. Wouldn’t either of those people have a key? 

He heard something rustle against the door—heard breathing and he realized whoever it was had put their mouth against the small crack at the casing. He swallowed and gripped his knife harder, the hunter in him absently noting that there were no cold spots or scent of sulfur. He reached for his cell phone and realized it was in the pocket of his coat, hanging on the back of his desk chair. 

“Hey, pretty boy.” 

  
Goosebumps flared across the back of his neck and his forearms. Oh God! Terror impaled him through his throat, heart, and stomach. That voice opening the floodgates on memories he’d worked hard to forget.

_Oh God, it hurts, please, please it hurts can’t breathe_

“I know you’re in there, pretty boy. I know you haven’t left yet.” 

Sam swallowed the incredibly ridiculous urge to say ‘yes I have.’ Echoes of the past haunted his mind. 

_You’re a filthy liar, pretty._

“Haven’t seen you around much. I’m thinking it’s because you’re avoiding me. That’s rude.” The voice admonished.

_Gonna make you mind your manners, pretty boy._

Sam stared into the darkness of his office, never so glad for it. 

“You hurt my feelings, pretty boy. You haven’t even come to see me.” A slow, dark chuckle seeped through the crack in the door, the drum beat in his dreams for the past seven years. 

“But I’ve seen you.” Sam held his breath. “Not much, though. You’re making it a challenge. You remember how much I love a challenge don’t you, Sam?” 

_You’re such a perfect challenge, pretty boy._

“You’re still so pretty.” Sam shook his head violently and froze abruptly, fearing that the motion was overheard. 

_God, you’re perfect._

“Let me in, Sam,” Nathan tried the door again, twisting and pulling on it hard, making Sam flinch and shudder. “I know you’re in there.” 

The movements stopped again and Sam counted the minutes in his head, hoping Nathan gave up. Then Sam’s phone rang. The low chuckle wafted through the door again, strangling Sam. 

“That’s what I thought, pretty boy.” He tried the knob slow and soft this time, just to let Sam know that he was there and he’d get in eventually. “I’ve got you again, Sam, and I’m not letting you. I’ll see you around, pretty boy. 

The knob stilled and Sam heard footsteps fading in the distance. Sam dropped his hunting knife and fell out of his squat onto the floor. He curled in on himself, hugging his torso and failing to calm his hyperventilating. 

He needed to calm down. He had to get up and gather himself so he could call Castiel to take him home. The angel may have respected his wishes and not questioned Sam about his behavior the other day, but if he came now…Sam knew Cas wouldn’t let the matter rest, or worse, tell Dean. 

For now, though, he let the darkness swallow him. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ*
> 
> Another co-written chapter.

“So the sheriff was investigating the deaths of Ms. Hill and Peter Blackman even though the cases had been officially closed?” Sam flipped through the pages on Peter Blackman’s police file. 

“Looks like. The others were filed away, but those two were rubberbanded together in the top drawer of his desk.” Dean was reading through Sam’s notes from his interview with Josh. Two names were circled with arrows drawn off to the margin and a question mark. “This Megan and Greg? Those the two kids you were going to talk to about Peter’s death?” 

“Yeah,” Sam propped his elbows on the table and knuckled his tired eyes. “The girlfriend and the teammate. I’ve got appointments set up with them tomorrow.” He pulled a pad of paper closer and tore the top sheet off. “I copied down the addresses for the high school victims. You think you could swing by there during your rounds, sheriff?”

“Yeah, no problem.” Dean leaned back, legs extending under the table and bracketing Sam’s. Sam startled, tucking his feet back under his chair, and Dean shot him a curious look. 

Sam shuffled the police files, frowning. _One, two, three, four, five_. Spreading them out over the tabletop, he counted again. _One, two, three, four, five._ He crossed checked the names on the tabs with his list of victims. “Where’s the file on Sheriff Jones?”

“Deputy Dan has it,” Dean answered, face twisting into a sneer, “I’ve asked for it four times and he keeps conveniently forgetting to bring it to me.” The sneer morphed into a hard smirk. “I bet if you wore those tight jeans again and shook your ass, he’d hand it over after he finished creaming his pants.”

Lifting his mug of coffee to his lips, Sam murmured before taking a sip. “You know, that shade of jealous green clashes with your eyes.” 

“Bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam replied automatically, frowning at the list of victim names. “Hey, when you check in with dad tomorrow, ask him if he could scan or fax over his journal notes on the last time we were here.” At Dean’s raised eyebrows, he amended, “Ask if Ash can scan or fax them over.”

“Sure.” Dean leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand down his face, “You thinking we missed something?” That thought more than anything else had been bothering Dean since Cas showed up in their hotel room in Mississippi. His eyes raked over the manila files, names of the dead typed in small, uniform letters along the edge of each one. If they’d missed something all those years ago then the deaths of each of these people was their fault. 

“I don’t know, Dean,” he looked at the column of names again this time taking in the cause of death, “but something’s not adding up.”

  
****

  
Dean turned off the overhead light and slid between the sheets, Sam’s long arms enveloping him before he had a chance to pull the comforter over them. The younger Winchester had been distant all night, skittish and unsure. The episode at the table had been only one of many flinches and withdrawals Dean had noticed. It was a complete turnaround from the insatiable sexual appetite Dean’d found himself the happy recipient of since their arrival. Now, Sam was pressed tightly against his side like he was trying to bury himself in Dean’s essence. Long fingers dug into his flesh as Sam held Dean in a desperate grip. The whole evening was oddly reminiscent of the weeks following Jessica’s death when Sam had been consumed by grief and guilt. 

Dean wrapped strong arms around his little brother, running a soothing hand through brown curls. Remembering the conversation with Castiel two nights ago, he took a deep breath. “What’s wrong, Sammy?” He spoke the words into Sam’s hair. “You didn’t eat much, so I know something’s bothering you.” 

Sam tensed in his arms and Dean felt a little guilty for pushing. The silence stretched until Dean was convinced that Sam wouldn’t answer. “I don’t like being here,” Sam whispered, quietly. At least it wasn’t a lie. 

Dean waited for him to elaborate and after a few minutes his patience was rewarded.

“We never hit the same town twice. The only reason we would is because we left unfinished business behind. I don’t like the idea that because we screwed up those people, those kids, died.” It wasn’t the entire truth, but it was part of the problem.

Dean continued combing his fingers through Sam’s hair, playing with the ends when he reached them before making another pass. Sam’s words mirrored his own thoughts from earlier. “I know, Sammy.” He pressed a kiss to his brother’s forehead. “We’ll figure it out.”

Dean’s skin erupted in goose bumps as Sam’s resigned sigh ghosted across his chest at the placating words. He reached down and tilted the younger man’s chin up. Hooded hazel eyes regarded him with an unreadable look. Their lips met in a lazy slide of flesh, unhurried and tender. When they parted Dean dozed before waking up and kissing Sam again, reassuring himself that Sam was here and okay. Smiling sleepily, Sam petted across Dean’s chest comfortingly and burrowed his head into the crook of Dean’s neck. 

“Love, S’my.” Dean murmured before falling into snores. 

Sam gripped Dean harder, “Love you too, Dean.” 

***

Dean’s second visit of the day was to Peter and Michael Blackman’s house. Mrs. Blackman answered the door, her face pale and drawn. Red-rimmed eyes, underscored by dark smudges, spoke of a woman grieving heavily over the deaths of her sons. 

“I’m Dean Winchester, the new sheriff.” 

She sniffed and nodded, dabbing her nose with the tissue clasped tightly in her right hand. “Yeah, I heard. Small town.” She tried to smile but Dean winced when it failed. “Tracy Blackman. Is there something I can do for you?”

Dean tried to put on a charming, innocent face. “I was going through the late sheriff’s files—things he was working on right before he passed—and your sons’ files were among them. I wanted to verify the findings on these cases to make sure that everything was completed properly before they were officially closed. I’d hate for something to fall through the cracks during the transition.” 

She gave him a strange look, opening the door wider for him to enter. “Yeah, come in. Uhm, I don’t like going up there,” she whispered, pointing in the direction of the stairs, “but you’re welcome to look around. Peter was the second door on the right and Michael was across the hall.” 

“Thank you. I’ll just take a look around and be out of here.” 

Mrs. Blackman nodded and wandered away, her eyes vacant. Dean frowned worriedly before climbing the stairs. 

Dean looked over Peter’s room, eyes tripping over the dark stain on the floor where carpet shampoo couldn’t remove the mortal sin. Pennants were pinned to the white walls interspersed with posters for popular rock bands and professional sports teams. A shelf over a small student desk was lined with medals and basketball trophies and his letterman jacket hung forlornly over the back of the arrowback chair. Typical teenager room. Three pictures were perched on the dresser. Dean recognized Peter from the pictures Sam had printed from the school’s website of the victims. In one he had his arms around a petite girl, her body leaning back against him, as they sat on the front steps of this house. The next was of him and Michael, arms slung companionably over each other’s shoulders. The last was a group shot of the basketball team and Dean smiled at the familiar face of Nathan Schneider in the back row next to Peter. He plucked the photos from the frames and slid them into the inner pocket of his jacket. He glanced around once more, running a perfunctory EMF scan and pocketing a few more items, before he crossed the hall to Michael’s room.

Michael’s room was a contrast to Peter’s, the décor displaying the brother’s varying tastes. Where Peter’s room was heavily sports themed, Michael’s was more academic. A poster of the Periodic Table spanned one wall while another of famous literary quotes was tacked on the adjoining wall. Layers of ribbons – math league, science club, debate team – hung above the head of the bed. Michael’s desk was set up similar to Peter’s, the shelf above laden with classic novels. 

This is what Sam’s room might have looked like, if he’d ever had one.

Sliding his hand between the mattress and boxspring, his fingers ran across a smooth hardness. The book was bound in red leather with the initials MHB embossed in gold in the lower right corner. He thumbed through the pages, a neat cursive script filling each lined page from top to bottom. Stashing the journal in his pocket with his other treasures, he did a quick EMF check and scanned the area for missed clues then quietly exited. 

The upstairs banister overlooked the foyer, the tiled floor glowing in the sunlight filtering in from the sidelights flanking the front door. He tilted his head up to the high-vaulted ceiling, examining the chandelier and thick-beamed rafters that ran wall to wall. His fingers tightened over the oak railing, brow furrowing at the odd texture. Looking down, he noticed scratches and scuffs marring the otherwise pristine wood. Castiel had thought the hanging death was paranormal, the height of the ceiling too great for a mortal suicide. Gauging the distance from where he stood, Dean had his doubts. He could see how a rope could easily be tossed over one of the rafters from this landing. He pulled his phone from his pocket and took a picture of the ceiling from the landing then one from the foyer. 

He found Mrs. Blackman in the kitchen staring blankly out the window, a steaming mug cradled between her pale hands. He pulled the items he’d found in the boys’ rooms, excluding the journal, from his pocket and set them on the counter. 

“Mrs. Blackman,” he spoke softly to alert her to his presence, “do you mind if I take these back to the station with me?” 

She shrugged. “I, uh,” her forehead creased and she blinked hard, “I don’t care as long as we get them back. We will get them back, right?” Her finger traced the image of her sons in the picture from Peter’s room. 

“Of course, ma’am.” Dean would make sure these things found their way back to this woman. 

“Thank you.” Shaking herself Mrs. Blackman dug in the cabinet under the sink retrieving a tub of Lysol wipes. Tugging one from the container, she wiped down the already gleaming counter. 

Gathering the items, Dean tucked them back in his jacket. “I think I have everything I need. I appreciate you letting me look around, Mrs. Blackman. Like I said, I just want to make sure every angle has been explored before the cases were closed.”

“It was nice meeting you, Sheriff Winchester.” 

“You too, Mrs. Blackman,” he responded, seeing himself to the door.   
  
Back in the cruiser, he dialed Sam’s number, extracting Peter and Michael’s things from his coat to lay them on the seat beside him. “Hey, Dean.” Sam’s voice was tight, distracted, and weary. Dean knew Sam hadn’t slept, that much was evident when he woke in the morning to dark bags under Sam’s eyes. However, Dean was going to give it another day or two before pressing Sam again. 

“Hey, darlin’,” Dean drawled, lifting the picture of Peter with the girl for a closer look. “You get to talk to those kids?” 

“Yeah.” Sam sighed. “Didn’t get much though. Just that Peter was closed off the weeks before his death. They said he kinda’ withdrew into himself – shied away from friends and was obsessed with his college applications. All he talked about was getting out of this town. Greg said that his playing even changed. He was always good, but according to Greg he started playing like a man possessed. Like he was angry at the world and wanted to punish something.” 

“Possessed?” Dean leaned back letting the warm sun hit him through the windshield. 

“I think he meant it more figuratively than literally, but I’m not ruling out the possibility.” Sam sighed again, the heavy one that usually meant his mind was troubled. “You find anything, De?” 

Dean perked up. “Yeah, actually. I mean, it’s not much, just a coupla’ things to look in. I didn’t get anything off the EMF though.” 

“What about Ms. Hill’s place?” 

“She lived alone in this tiny house. Same MO as the last time we were here, man. Body burned, house intact. Me and Dad drowned all those bricks, but there can’t be anything else that does that.” 

“Maybe you missed one or someone found one in the lake?” Sam wrinkled his face, both were unlikely possibilities. 

“Maybe,” Dean deliberated, voice as doubting as Sam felt. “It’s not like someone would have stumbled on them. We dumped them at the deepest part of that lake. You’d have to be looking for them to find them.”

“Hey. I forgot to mention earlier. Did you check next door to Ms. Hill? Her sister used to live there.” 

Dean frowned because he hadn’t considered next of kin for Ms. Hill yet. “No, didn’t know that. How did you know, Sam?” 

Sam hesitated before answering. “She told me.” 

That brought Dean up short. “When?” 

“Last time we were here. I met with her a couple of times,” his voice softened. “I remember she talked about her sister a lot.” 

“You knew her from last time?” Dean asked, surprised Sam hadn’t mentioned knowing one of the victims. 

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice was careful, like he was afraid Dean would snap. “Standard career planning stuff like I’m doing with the students now.”  
  
Anger immediately gripped Dean, he put the car in drive and headed back to the office a little faster than necessary. “Career planning? Like in college planning?” 

“Dean—“

“You knew the vic,” Dean interrupted, “it might have been important to the hunt.” He paused. “And she knew about college? You told a practical stranger you wanted to apply to college but you couldn’t tell your own family, Sam?” 

“It wasn’t like—“ 

“Whatever, Sam. I’ll see you after work.” 

“Dean!” 

Dean hung up on Sam’s cry and threw the phone into the passenger seat.

***

Sam got home before Dean which he found strange. The past couple of days Dean had tried his damnedest to sneak out of work anywhere from ten minutes to an hour early. 

Looking for a distraction from the scratched record repeat of their phone conversation running through his head, Sam started picking up around the apartment. Dishes and laundry didn’t take nearly enough time and before long he found himself sitting in the oppressively quiet room, alone with his thoughts. 

Sam wouldn’t apologize for Ms. Hill and her gentle goading at him to attend college. He agreed that he should have discussed the decision with Dean and John before he applied to college, or when he got his acceptance letter, but he’d been afraid. At the time, life was crazy – he was perpetually angry and fighting with dad more often than not. He should have manned up and sat down with them, but instead he chose to hide the admissions essays and applications. He chose to keep it from them, from Dean, and their hurt was his fault.

Sam hadn’t immediately told Dean about Ms. Hill for this reason. He knew that Stanford was a slow healing wound for Dean and Sam didn’t want to upset him. Dean never talked to Sam about why Stanford bothered him and Sam knew better than to press the issue. 

Suddenly the door burst open, making Sam jump and Dean stumbled in, arms full of plastic bags. 

“Hey, Sam!” Dean greeted cheerily enough but Sam didn’t miss how Dean didn’t look him in the eye. He geared himself up for the following hours of awkwardness, frustration, and heartache that he had no one but himself to blame for. 

“Dean.” Sam moved to help Dean unload the groceries. 

Dean was relieved when Sam didn’t immediately want to talk about their earlier phone conversation. He didn’t want to talk about it at all. Memories of that night left a bitter taste in Dean’s mouth. Finding out that Sam didn’t want them – didn’t want Dean – anymore, trying to convince a stoic Sam to come back, the week of unreturned phone calls afterwards. 

When he was sure Sam wasn’t looking at him, Dean studied his little brother. He was dressed in a hoodie and sweats, both of which were so old and stretched out that somehow Sam’s six-foot-four looked small and swallowed up in the material. His face was drawn and a little pale, the dark rings under his eyes a little more pronounced than this morning and Dean was reminded violently of Mrs. Blackwell. It was the look of someone who’d lost everything they cared about.

Dean felt a twinge of guilt. Sam had made mistakes in the past and present, but Dean wasn’t blameless. He’d been a jerk on the phone. He stepped up to Sam, who was bent over a bag, and kissed him briefly on the temple, hoping to convey the message _I’m not sorry but I’m a jerk and just give me some time_. Sam looked up at him and smiled weakly, turning back to unloading the groceries. 

They worked in silence, laying the food on the counter to be put away. Sam studied the stack of cellophane wrapped meat with a quizzical expression. “That’s a lot of meat.” 

Dean closed his eyes and winced. He’d forgotten to tell Sam that Nathan was coming over for a cookout. “Yeah, um, forgot to tell you earlier. I invited Nathan Schneider over for dinner. He’s coming by around seven.” Sam’s silence made Dean look up. His little brother stared at him with wide, startled eyes, body tensed like Sam was ready to bolt. “Sam?”

“I, uhm.” Sam whispered and cleared his throat. “Don’t you think we need to concentrate on the hunt?” 

Dean frowned. “We’re not going to do anything until tomorrow. What’s wrong, Sam?”

“N-nothing,” Sam stammered, shrugging to add emphasis to his weak words. “It was just a surprise. That’s all. Wish you’d said something earlier.” 

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of that going around today.” Dean snapped and looked down before he could see Sam flinch.

“I…I don’t want—“ Sam was interrupted by a knock at the door. His heart dropped, the terror of the day before creeping up on him. 

Dean frowned and looked at his watch. “Huh. He’s early.” Noticing Sam’s blank expression, he sighed. “Look, it’s not a big deal. He got us this place so we owe him one. I can’t turn him away now.” Dean turned and went to answer the door. Truthfully, with the way things were going with Sam today, Dean thought Nathan might provide a needed break from each other. 

Dean opened the door to see Nathan grinning at him, laden down with a six-pack in each hand. Dean smiled at him and reached for one of the six-packs. “Hey, Nathan, man, you’re early,” Dean greeted as he moved to the side to allow Nathan to come in. “We haven’t even dragged out the grill yet!” 

Sam stood at the counter, determined to keep something between him and Nathan. He was as tall and broad as Sam remembered, forcing Sam to feel small and skinny again, like the teenager he had once been. Seeing Nathan for the first time in eight years, his body and mind reverted to the defense mechanisms he’d developed back then with frightening ease. He went numb and dissociated – emotions secured behind a thin sheeting of plastic just like the meat piled by the stove. You could look, but you couldn’t touch. 

“Hey, Sam. Damn, boy! You got tall!” Nathan set down the beer and held out his hand, pulling Sam in for a half-hug when the younger man shook it. Sam flinched hard, only brushing against Nathan’s body for a split second before pulling away. He self-consciously wiped the hand Nathan had held against his sweats. 

“Nice to see you again, Nathan.” Sam murmured and mechanically returned to setting out the food, constantly aware of Nathan’s place in the room. “Thanks for getting us this apartment. It’s nice.” 

Nathan shrugged. “Serves its purpose.”

Dean opened a beer and took a long pull. “Still, we owe ya, man.” He handed one over to Nathan then tipped another toward his brother in question. Sam shook his head and turned his attention back to putting the groceries away. 

“Yes. I guess you do.” Nathan shot a dark look at Sam before chuckling. “The kids wearing you out at school, Sam? Looks like you’re about ready for bed.” Maybe it was Sam’s imagination, but he was fairly certain he heard Nathan emphasize the word bed.

Sam face remained neutrally blank. “Dean forgot to tell me you were coming over.” He saw Dean frown around his beer bottle in his peripheral. Seeing an opportunity to collect himself, Sam continued. “Why don’t you guys fill up the cooler and drag the grill out while I change? I’ll bring down the food.” 

“I can come back up to help you.” Nathan offered as Dean filled the cooler with the beers, dumping in the bag of ice he’d picked up at the store. 

“No.” Sam said emphatically. He tried to smile when Dean looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve got it. You guys get the grill fired up and by the time I get down there, you should be ready to go.” 

They nodded and Sam slipped into the bedroom, leaning heavily against the closed door. He locked the knob and released a slow breath. All he needed to do was get dressed, keep his distance with Nathan and end this fucking nightmare by solving the hunt so that they could leave this hellish town. Straightening his shoulders, he pushed off the door.

****

  
Dean and Nathan were downstairs pulling out the grill and supplies from storage. “You boys really look good. It’s a shame John didn’t come out of that wreck like you two.” 

Dean frowned concentrating on how to unfold the lawn chair. It shouldn’t be as complicated as it was, but he was a little hung up on Sam’s behavior. Something was wrong, something more than just their fight. Sam compartmentalized with the best of them, a flawless poker face was almost a requirement of their job, but that wasn’t Sam’s ‘pretend’ face Dean’d seen upstairs. No, the mask Sam’d forced on was detached and vacant, dead. 

He shuddered at the word and sent a rueful smile to Nathan. “It’s kind of a miracle any of us came out of the wreck at all.” 

“It really is,” Nathan agreed. “You two have grown a lot since I last saw you. Especially Sam.” 

Dean laughed. “Yeah, growing pains were a bitch.” Dean smiled at the memories of a more coltish Sam—wobbly and clumsy on his ever-growing limbs.

Nathan chuckled and took a pull of his beer as he sat and watched Dean light the grill. “I experienced a few of those.” His gaze was unreadable as he looked Dean over. “You boys are doing well for yourselves. You liking your job as sheriff?” 

Dean shrugged. “It’s not as exciting as it sounds, but it’s cool. I think Sam has more of a challenge with the kids at the school.” 

“Yeah, I hear that.” Nathan chortled but his face grew serious. “How’s the kid doing, really? Hasn’t been long since his girlfriend died.” 

Dean froze and looked up at Nathan, stunned. How the hell did Nathan know that? At Nathan’s curious glance Dean cleared his throat. “A little over two years. Did…Dad tell you about it?” 

Nathan frowned and gave Dean a puzzled look. “He mentioned it in passing. Said that Sam’s girlfriend died and he was taking a road trip with you. I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds, I was worried about him.” 

Dean swallowed and busily finished setting up the grill. “It was rough for a while, but he’s doing better. Thanks for your concern.”

Nathan set his beer down on the small table and leaned back in his chair, hands folded on his stomach. “Sam was… _is_ a good kid. We talked a lot while you were here. Boy had a lot of questions.” 

Dean knew he shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t pry, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Yeah? What about?” He closed the cover on the grill and turned toward the ex-Marine.

Nathan studied Dean thoughtfully. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to say anything. I sorta’ hinted at some of it when you were here before.” He hesitated for a minute before continuing. “I guess first we should start out with the fact that I’m gay. Your dad has known since we were enlisted.” He stopped, eyeing Dean carefully. “Is that a problem with you?”

Dean shook his head and Nathan continued. “Well, you remember the talk we had back then about Sam’s sexual preferences?”

Dean stared blankly, his lip curling in a pained expression. “Yeah.” 

_“Hey Dean, man? Walk with me to my car, would you?” It was Nathan’s not so subtle way to talk to Dean alone. Dean shrugged and followed Nathan out, ten minutes later he wished he never had._

“Well, like I said Sam had questions. About gay sex and some things he’d seen online.” 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Sam asked you about shit like that? I would have thought he would have been too embarrassed.” 

Nathan shrugged. “The kid was confused, curious. He didn’t really get hung up on the gay thing, more the BDSM thing. He didn’t understand that it’s okay to want these things, that it doesn’t make him less of a person, it’s just a way someone can feel loved and respected. He was confused that some people like the pain as much as the pleasure.”

Dean fidgeted, laying out the utensils on the side table. “But Sam isn’t into that.”

Nathan raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You sure you know what your brother’s bedroom activities are?” He joked and Dean flushed, looking away. “I warned you back then for his safety. Stuff like that just doesn’t go away.” 

“I’ve always kept Sammy safe,” he snapped, scowling. He squatted down to check the propane tanks, giving his whirling mind a task. At least, he’d always tried to keep Sammy safe.

_“What the fuck, Sam,” he husked out when Sam finally emerged from his room that evening for dinner._

_Sam jumped, his eyes wide and confused. “Uhm?”_

_He stormed over, tilting Sam’s head to the side to examine the bruised jaw and split lip. His little brother had been holed up in his room since Dean’d gotten home from the gas station and this was the first time he’d seen him. “I thought you said the things at school weren’t too bad?” he grilled, fingertips digging deep into the skin of the cheek that wasn’t bruised. He knew that some of the kids were giving Sam a hard time about quitting the basketball team, but Sam had promised that he was handling everything on his own._

_“It’s nothing,” Sam dismissed, ducking out of Dean’s grip._

_“Sam, did this happen at school?” Dean growled._

_“No, it didn’t happen at school. I said I could handle it! This,” he said, reaching up and brushing his fingers lightly over the bruise. “This is from this guy…”_

_Anger rushed up Dean’s spine and he shoved Sam back, breaking off whatever feeble explanation his brother had spent the last few hours concocting in his room._

“ _What the hell,” Sam protested, backing up instinctively at what Dean could imagine was a thunderous look on his face._

_“A guy, Sam? How old is he?” Fuck, Nathan had warned him about this._

_“I—I don’t know? Eighteen? Twenty? He didn’t mean to—“_

_Dean barked out a harsh laugh. “Didn’t mean to? You’re gonna stand up for him, Sammy?”_

_“Dean, what the hell—“_

_He shoved Sam again. “Stop lying, Sam! The gig is up! I know, okay? I know! Nathan told me!”_

_“You know what?” Sam screamed, frustrated. “Dean, this guy, he was beating up on Mac after school. I broke up the fight, pulled him off. He punched me before he ran away.”_

_“Shut up, Sam! I don’t want to hear anything unless it’s the truth.” He was on a roll, his face was wild, his breathing rapid and he looked terrifying._

_“That is the truth. Ask Mac.” Sam’s eyes were wet and pleading._

_His heart threatened to soften, but he refused to sit back while Sam allowed someone to… “Look, I’m just worried, okay? Sam, you can’t go out by yourself again—“_

_“Fuck you, Dean. I’ll do whatever the hell I want!”_

_He shoved Sam a third time, Sam stumbling backwards under the force. Sam cried out and pushed his whole body against him. They scuffled, each desperate for the upper hand, and for a minute it seemed like they’re going to lose balance and hit the ground. He was still stronger though and eventually was able to manhandle Sam, throwing him against the wall and holding him there with the thin collar of his t-shirt._

_“What you want is sick, Sam,” he hissed. His eyes widened and he couldn’t believe he said that. He threw Sam harder against the wall and then let go, disgusted. “Stay in your damn room tonight, Sam,” he seethed before he stormed out._

  
“I had a partner into that stuff before.” Nathan broke into his thoughts. “He didn’t even trust most of his partners to tell them what he was into. A lot of people don’t understand it—they think someone is weak or sick for liking a little…more.” 

Dean nodded numbly at the older man, thoughts spinning so fast in his head they sounded like static. He knew Sam wasn’t into that stuff. He would have told Dean if he was, right? What if Sam never said anything because he knew Dean didn’t go for that kind of thing? His mind drifted to the other day and Sam’s new love for a man in uniform. Was it Sam’s secret need to be dominated coming out as a cop kink?

Nathan leaned over and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Listen, Dean. Don’t push him or tell him that you know. Just look out for him. Someone could take advantage of Sam and you need to make sure he doesn’t get hurt.” 

Dean smiled weakly, a new fear springing forth. If Sam really was into this hardcore stuff, how long would it be before he started looking to get his needs satisfied by someone other than Dean? He loved Sam with everything he had. Dean would just have to get over his dislike of that form of bedroom play. 

Dean would show Sam that he could be trusted. 


	9. Chapter 9

Sam danced around Nathan the entire night, performing fluid moves – always keeping a buffer between him and the ex-Marine – that would’ve made Baryshnikov proud. He waited until Nathan and Dean chose their seats at dinner to take the one directly across from his former gym teacher. He took every opportunity to leave the gathering – twice for more beer, once for napkins and once again for ketchup. Sam half-heartedly participated in the conversation, his mind purposefully occupied with planning the vacation that he and Dean would take when this hunt was over. His head throbbed from the constant move-countermove required to keep Nathan at arm’s length.

When Dean’s phone rang, Ash’s name in the display, Sam gratefully seized the opening. “I’ll take it and then I think I’m going to turn in. I’m not feeling well.”

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean asked as Sam answered his phone and greeted the off-beat roadie.

“Hang on, Ash,” Sam cupped the end of the phone and smiled wanly, “I’m fine. Really,” he emphasized at Dean’s raised eyebrow. “I just feel a little off and want to lie down.”

“O-kay.” Dean felt like it was anything but okay. “If you’re sure.” Dean definitely wasn’t sure. 

Sam smiled again, that little quirk of his mouth where only one corner lifted he used when he was trying to put on a valiant front. Dean’s eyes tracked him as he disappeared into the stairwell that led to their apartment. Sam’d been acting odd all night, the vacant, dead look never leaving his face, and Dean had blew right past worried into out and out concerned about an hour ago. It also hadn’t escaped his notice that Sam was fighting off a headache, the tight lines around his eyes and the stiffness of his shoulders like a flashing neon sign to those who knew where to look. 

“Everything all right?”

Dean turned to Nathan and nodded. “Yeah, Sam’s prone to headaches and with the stress of the move and starting a new job,” this hunt, their fight, “one was bound to creep up on him.” 

“We can call it a night if you want to go up and take care of him.” Nathan dropped his feet from where he’d kicked them up in the chair next to him and sat straighter in his seat.

Dean looked at the side of the building, eyes falling unerringly on the living room window of their apartment, and saw Sam’s shadow pass by the lighted square. “Nah, he’ll probably take something and hit the hay. The best thing for him right now is a dark, cool bedroom.”\

He grabbed his bottle of beer, taking a swallow, and steered the conversation back to their previous debate on the use of original parts in classic car restoration. However, his distracted eyes flicked periodically to the illuminated window.

  
******

  
Bent over the table, Sam typed his password into his e-mail account. “Thanks for doing this, Ash.” Waiting for his Inbox to load, he paced the length of the living room, the unspent adrenaline from the evening with Nathan Schneider giving him an abundance of excess energy. He rubbed his fingers in circles over his temples, trying to alleviate the building pain. 

“No problemo, dude. I consider it my duty to Silicon Valley to not let John Winchester touch a computer.”

“Heard that,” Sam chuckled, sitting at the small kitchen table when a list of unread messages flashed on the screen. He clicked on the one from Ash’s e-mail address and quickly viewed the PDF file attached – electronic images of their dad’s journal dating from October, 2000. “Everything looks good. Thanks again, man. Hey,” he interjected quickly, knuckling the span of forehead between his eyebrows, “if I send over some things for Dad would you mind printing them out? It’s just the police and coroner reports on the deaths. We could use another set of eyes on them.”

“’Course not.” In the background Sam could hear his father’s bellowing voice, yelling ‘Woman!’ at who he could only assume was Ellen. A female voice hollered something in return and Ash hissed at the comment. “That is if your old man survives until you send them.”

“That bad, huh?” Sam stood and went to the sink, filling a glass with water. He took a drink and smiled around the lip of the glass at Ash’s answering groan. “Sorry, bud,” he commiserated. “I’ll probably send that stuff on Monday. Dean still needs to get me the file on the former sheriff.”

“Whenever. I’ll get them printed out and over to the big Kahuna. Take it easy, Sam. I’ll catch you on the flip side.” Ash set the receiver back on the cradle, the line filled with John and Ellen’s bickering before the call disconnected.

Sam huffed a laugh and closed Dean’s phone. Setting it on the counter along with his water, he opened the overhead cabinet to the right of the sink and pulled out a bottle of extra strength ibuprofen. He tilted the bottle to tap a couple of pills into his palm when a strong body pushed him into the counter, pinning him to the hard surface. His hand jerked and orange pills rained down on the white enamel of the kitchen sink. 

“Have a headache, pretty boy?” 

Sam struggled, elbows aiming for any body part within their range. Arms like steel bands surrounded his, binding them to his side and effectively stopping his fight. Sam swallowed past the fear and concentrated on his current situation. He wasn’t a gangly sixteen year-old anymore, he was a man and needed to remember that.

“W-where’s Dean?” He internally cursed the stuttered words at the same time he cheered himself for getting them out.

“Putting the grill away,” Nathan nosed into the long locks at Sam’s nape, inhaling deeply. “You smell like innocence, just like you did back then. But we both know that you’re not innocent don’t we, pretty boy?”

“Get your hands off me.” Sam wriggled violently, trying to find a weakness in the man’s hold. White starburst of light flitted across his vision and his stomach churned as his struggles caused vicious pains to shoot through his already aching head. He reached up and grabbed Nathan’s thumb, peeling it away from where he held his other hand. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Nathan sing-songed behind him right before pain erupted on Sam’s shoulder near his neck. Sharp teeth clamped down, causing Sam to cry out, then released. Nathan pushed his body harder against Sam’s, the younger man’s hip bones grinding painfully into the unforgiving Formica countertop. The arms around his chest slid away, trading the crushing embrace for a punishing grip on Sam’s biceps.

“Your body has changed so much since you were last mine, but you still taste the same,” he licked a line up Sam’s throat, relishing in the shudder of the body trapped beneath him, “and smell the same,” he sniffed Sam’s hair, smirking at the resultant whimper. “It makes me wonder if you’ll still feel the same around my cock, pretty boy. Warm and tight,” he ground his erection against Sam’s ass, his voice dropping an octave. 

_You’re so tight, pretty boy, so tight and hot and just for me._

“I only got a sample of your sweetness, but I was addicted at first bite. I watch the tape of our time together, just to try and recapture the euphoria, but it pales in comparison to having you. And believe me, I will have you under me again.” 

_Oh, God, no!_ Sam’s stomach roiled and he gagged, retching. His body convulsed under the spasms, the noise masking the front door opening. A rush of cold air hit his terror-sweat sheened body, skin erupting in gooseflesh, and the pressure holding him to the counter vanished. He leaned forward over the sink and vomited the meager contents of his stomach onto the orange dotted porcelain.

“Sammy? Sammy, you okay? What happened?” Dean rushed to his side, looking at Nathan for an explanation when it appeared that Sam was unable to give one. He rubbed a soothing hand over his brother’s back as his nurturing instincts clicked into place.

“We were talking and he went to take some aspirin. Then all the sudden he started throwing up.” Nathan stepped back, a look of disgust on his face.

Tears sprang to the corners of Sam’s eyes, forced there by fear, stress and the strain of his retching. They trailed over his cheeks as he spit the last of the bile from his mouth and tried to catch his breath. He could feel Dean’s strong presence beside him and he reached up with one hand, fisting it in the fabric of his brother’s shirt. The pain in his head pulsed in time with his thoughts… _Dean…safe…love…protect_. His guarded muscles unwound as the words repeated to the staccato beat and he leaned trustingly into his brother’s side, exhaustion sapping his strength.

“You done?” Dean’s voice was as gentle as his touch.

Sam nodded and laid his forehead on the arm braced against the side of the sink. He whimpered thankfully when Dean turned the faucet on to rinse the acidic vomitus down the drain and wet a washcloth to press against his feverish skin.

“It’s okay, baby boy. I got you. You should’ve said something earlier, Sammy,” Dean crooned, wiping Sam’s sweat and tear streaked face with the cool cloth. He glanced up at Nathan, standing a good distance away, and grimaced. “Sorry, man. I need to get him in bed.”

Nathan waved a dismissive hand at him. “Do what you gotta’ do to take care of your boy.” He hadn’t missed the endearment. “I’ll clean up here.”

Sam rolled his head to the side and blinked, noticing the stack of dirty dishes beside the sink that Dean’d obviously brought up. He heard his brother agree with a word of thanks and allowed himself to be led away from the kitchen – away from Schneider – without protest. 

Dean helped him into the bedroom and seated him on the bed, cupping Sam’s weary-heavy head between his hands. “Sammy?” He shook the head slightly, wincing at the groan of pain it elicited. “Did you have a vision?”

 _Vision?_ The word bounced around Sam’s addled mind, teasing his sense of recognition before the meaning took hold. Dean thought the reason Sam was so sick was because he’d had a vision. He shook his head, groaning as the motion intensified the pain. No, no vision…just a nightmare.

“Alright, Sasquatch, you’ll feel better after you get some rest.” Dean tugged the hem of Sam’s sweatshirt up, Sam’s arms rising like a small child’s to help in the removal. With a little effort, he divested Sam of the sweatpants and guided his swaying brother to the mattress. Movement in the doorway caught his attention and he saw Nathan standing in the opening with a glass of water in one hand, the bottle of painkillers in the other. The older man’s eyes roved appreciatively over Sam’s body sprawled on the bed, lingering long enough at certain places to make Dean uncomfortable. Dean knew intimately that Sam’s physique was impressive and usually was proud when others realized it too, but there was something dark and hungry in Nathan’s gaze. 

“Dean,” Sam pleaded, shivering and oblivious to the other presence in the room. His weak arms pulled on the blanket hoping to protect his body from the chilly air of the room. Breaking Nathan’s gaze, Dean covered Sam’s exposed form and shushed him quietly. Standing, he moved to the door, barring entrance.

“Sam never did take anything.” Nathan held out the glass and the bottle, his eyes trained on Sam over Dean’s shoulder.

Up close the glint in those dark eyes held a possessive desire – a need to claim and dominate. A protective instinct surged in Dean’s chest and he stepped forward, his proximity forcing Nathan a step back. “Thanks,” he said tightly, taking the offered items, “I’ll get him to take these and then I’ll be out.”

Nathan nodded and Dean stepped back into the bedroom, closing the door with the toe of his boot. Something was definitely wrong.

  
****

  
Dean quietly slipped between the sheets of their bed, snuggling up to the sleeping form curled along the opposite edge. Nathan had stayed long enough to help Dean clean the kitchen then excused himself. Dean watched the man warily, searching for any sign of the look he’d witnessed earlier. Nathan was as affable as ever, recounting horror stories of KP duty, and Dean convinced himself that he’d imagined the whole encounter.

After brushing his teeth, he’d left the bathroom light on with the door pulled partly closed so Sam could see if he felt sick again in the night. In the muted illumination he could see Sam’s face, strained even in sleep, and he petted the side of his brother’s face, smoothing back the wayward locks that had fallen across his cheek. Running his fingers through the silky strands, smiling when Sam turned into the caress, Dean leaned forward to kiss the newly revealed patch of skin and stopped. Close to the juncture of Sam’s neck and shoulder was a red place, the shape and size of a bite. Dean tried to remember if he’d bitten Sam during their last romp and honestly couldn’t recall. It was possible and the mark was right at Dean’s favorite spot on Sam’s body. Sam hadn’t said anything so maybe there was something to this kink that Nathan mentioned. Kissing the spot tenderly, Dean tightened his hold on Sam and lay back on the pillow, an experiment formulating in his mind.

  
****

_He walked through the boys’ locker room, the light filtering in through the ceiling mounted windows suggesting it was near early evening. The rooms were empty, the smell of sweat and mold permeating the space, and Sam couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. He did; however, know who he’d come to see._

_“Nathan?” He slipped past the rows of aluminum lockers to the alcove at the end where the facilities were housed. There was no one in sight, most of the stall doors on his right closed and the showers silent. The hairs on the nape of his neck rose and he wondered if he was as alone as he’d originally thought._

_“Hello?” he called out again, voice echoing off the tiled walls, “Anyone here?”_

_Near the end of the line of showers, one of the doors swung open, the hot, humid mist ghosting in the cool air of the room. Nathan emerged with an easy grin, brown eyes looking darker than normal in the blue-gray light. He was clad in a pair of track pants, chest bare and glistening with water drops._

_“Hey, pretty boy,” Nathan husked out. “Wasn’t expecting to see you. Not that I’m complaining.”_

_Instinctively, he took a step back, the leer on the older man’s face making a trickle of fear slide down his spine. Wanting to flee, he blurted out what he came here to ask. “What did you say to Dean that night?”_

_Nathan raised an eyebrow, “He hasn’t confronted you yet? Demanded that you talk? He was really concerned after our discussion. Big brother protective mode firmly in place. I’m surprised he let you out of his sight.”_

_“What did you do?” He wiped his palms on his jeans, Nathan’s unblinking gaze making him increasingly nervous. “What did you say to Dean to make him so upset?” His mind flashed to their fight a few nights ago where Dean’d shoved him hard into the wall and called him sick. Mind pre-occupied reliving the argument, he didn’t notice the ex-Marine steadily moving closer._

_Nathan’s eyes grew impossibly darker, laser focused on Sam’s mouth. An arrogant smile graced his face and when he answered his voice was rough and deeper than Sam’d ever heard it. “I think you’re gonna wish you had stayed home, pretty boy. Talked with your big brother rather than confronting the Big Bad Wolf.”_

_Years of training and instincts finely honed on a hunter’s whetstone kicked in and seized control of his body from his stunned mind. He turned and ran, his long strides carrying him back into the main locker room._

_He cried out when a hand grabbed him by the tail of his shirt and yanked him hard. He reeled and fell, managing to keep his knees off the ground and land on his hands. He_ _sprang back up and whirled to face his opponent. Flight wasn’t an option so that only left fight. Nathan stood in front of the door, his grin completely feral and skin flushed a light red._

_“Why are you doing this,” Sam snarled, centering his weight on the balls of his feet, his arms loose and his hands curled in fists._

_Taking in his stance, Nathan ignored his question, “God, I knew this would be perfect.”_

_“What do you want?” Sam desperately hoped he was somehow misreading the situation._

_Nathan stood there, wet hair falling in those eyes that never wavered from him, darkly promising things that nightmares were made of._

Dean woke with a grunt as one of Sam’s heels connected sharply with his shin. He barely had time to move his legs before the other came back. Sam’s legs shifted restlessly under the blanket like he was running in place. 

“Sammy, dude, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.” Dean gently clasped Sam’s shoulder and shook it.

_“Dad! Dean!” Sam wailed, vainly hoping his pleas would bring them, even though he knew they couldn’t hear him._

Sam thrashed against him, movements panicked and frantic. “Dean—De! Dad! _Daddy!_ ” 

Dean startled hard enough that he released his grip on Sam’s shoulder. In all the years that he’d woken Sam up from nightmares, never once had his little brother called out for their father. He grabbed Sam’s shoulders more firmly and shook harder. “Sam, wake up! Dammit! You’re scaring me.”

_“S-Stay the fuck away,” Sam slurred, eyes rolling. “D-Dad and Dean—they’ll kill you—“_

_Nathan laughed, “Only if they believe you.”_

Tears streamed from Sam’s eyes. “De, De, De, De.”

“Sam!” 

Sam jerked awake, eyes blinking back tears and trying to focus on his surroundings. He was in bed with Dean, not in the mildewed locker room. He fell back against the pillows, panting at the ceiling as his heart tried to find a normal rhythm.

“We gotta’ talk about this, Sam.” Dean propped his head up on his palm and looked down at his brother.

“No, we don’t,” Sam answered, flatly, “All we gotta’ do is figure out this hunt and get the hell out of this town.”

“Agreed,” Dean acquiesced, laying down and allowing his brother to curl into him. “But we’re still going to talk about it.” When he felt his brother start to protest, he pressed his fingers to Sam’s lips. “I let it go after Jess,” he tightened his embrace when Sam stiffened, “and I almost lost you because of it. I won’t let that happen again.”

“Later,” Sam sighed, burrowing deeper in Dean’s arms, “Sleepy now.”

“Tomorrow, Sam,” Dean declared in his best authoritative voice then kissed the crown of Sam’s head.

Sam didn’t answer. He just lay there, riding the rise and fall of Dean’s chest until the darkness of night faded into the pale orange of dawn.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ*  
> Last of the co-written chapters.

It was just after dawn broke that Sam decided to get up. He’d never made it back to sleep after his nightmare and had spent the rest of the night listening to Dean’s heartbeats and clinging to the older man like a human teddy bear.

  
He’d tried to rationalize with himself, arguing that he was six foot four and pushing 200 pounds, he should be able to handle a man twenty years his senior. There was no reason Schneider should be able to sneak up on him, affect him. He might have been in the armed forces, but John had ensured that his boys had the same military training the new recruits at Parris Island received on top of their instruction in staying alive while hunting the supernatural. Despite the gym teacher’s fit physique, Sam was younger, faster, stronger and better trained. That was his head’s vantage point and Sam had to admit it was a fairly good argument.

That was, until he heard his heart’s rebuttal. Yes, Schneider might be older and less toned than Sam, but he had an advantage – one that he was well aware of and could manipulate easily. _Fear._ Next to death it was the great equalizer, and applied correctly it could reduce the bravest man to the lowliest coward. It was the chink in everyone’s armor, a deadly weakness if discovered by the enemy, and Schneider knew Sam’s. Sam didn’t have any delusions about this man or what he was capable of. There were no ‘what-ifs’ that he could write off as an overactive imagination or paranoid fantasy, only the cold dread of experienced knowledge. When Sam was near the man his mind was too wrapped up in memories of what had happened and worries that it could again, leaving logic and reason by the wayside when they were needed most. That was how Schneider made it past his hard built defenses every time. Not because he was a spectacular physical specimen, but because, like a shark sensing the writhing vibrations of a distressed prey, Nathan had sensed Sam’s fear.

Finally calling the debate a tie, his head unwilling to concede defeat to his heart, Sam pulled himself from Dean’s embrace and made his way through the sunrise lit apartment. Coffee was the first order of the morning and, rubbing his knuckles into dry, tired eyes, he knew it would remain high on the list of priorities for the remainder of the day. Sitting at the table, steaming mug of caffeine next to him, Sam started his computer and pulled up the PDF version of his father’s journal. He glossed over the entries of the stuff preceding their arrival in Pike Creek – finding the hunt, the drive there and securing the apartment – and quickly found the notes on the hunt itself.

**_Sam’s research today did reveal a few possibilities_ **

Below that in his father’s barely legible scrawl was a list of possible fire monsters– Destroyah and Basan – and their descriptions followed directly by the potential fire demons – Marbas and Moloch – and their mythologies. All copied meticulously from the notes that Sam remembered making in that empty computer lab almost a decade ago. He read further trying to decipher the partial sentences and often disjointed thoughts that comprised most of the entries.

**_Sam’s theory - century old church fire. Pike Creek Anglican, doubled as the local school. Current HS built on ruins. Deceased – Edna Reese, school board member, and unnamed children and teachers. Possibility of witch._ **

**_Dean and I are uncertain and think we should pursue the demon angle. Even if it’s a witch, we have to know which demon she allied herself to. Without proof, I can’t give up it’s the thing that killed Mary. Not with Sam so close. Not after what Mo said._ **

_Mo?_ Sam bit his lip before comprehension dawned. Missouri. What could Missouri have said to his dad to make him worry so much? Did Missouri know, eight years ago, that Azazel had plans for him? Did she know what they were? 

_**Dean and I are being hard on him and he’s lashing out, but I can’t run the risk something will happen to him. Someday I hope he’ll understand and forgive me.** _

There were several more entries, each detailing the lack of evidence and dead-ends they’d encountered. A few mentioned again John’s desperate need to keep Sam close and safe and that Sam was bristling under the intense scrutiny. He scrolled through the pages, reading words he’d wished his father had said back then. The first line of the next page made him pause.

_**Sam was right.** _

_**I was too focused on it being the demon that I was blind to other possibilities. It’s not the thing that killed my Mary. Sam found the diary of Rebekah Bainbridge at the local library. She was a witch and suspected her husband, William, of cheating with Edna Reese, local school board member and teacher at the school. Rebekah summoned a demon for revenge not realizing there is always a price. It attacked the next time William and Edna were together - when he dropped his son off at school. It set the building on fire, trapping everyone inside. Rebekah went to the school to stop the demon, but it had grown too strong for her to exorcise. She was able to bind it “to the object of its destructive wrath.” Five students survived after the demon was contained and Rebekah was severely burned. Edna Reese, William Bainbridge and Stephen Bainbridge perished. According to reports all bodies were burned to ash in the wreckage, only small part of the building remained untouched. Rebekah eventually went mad with grief over losing her husband and son. The city considered her unstable and the contents of her diary were written off as part of her delusions. We are researching the possibilities that someone released the demon or Rebekah as a vengeful spirit.** _

Sam recalled spending the next few days traveling the halls of the high school staring at the silent EMF detector in his hands, chasing the elusive shadow that still dogged his steps, and befriending Martha, the eighty-year- old keeper of the archive at the building department. Three visits and innumerable cheek pinches later, Sam had left the musty smelling building with the plans for the high school and numb dimples. On the bright side, Martha was a grandmother and had loved to bake cookies.

_**Sam doing EMF sweeps of the school during the day and Dean going in at night. Covering bases, the three of us dug up the grave of Rebekah Bainbridge and burned her body. No activity at the desecration or burning. Sam found building schematics and plans – ruins of old church used in construction of existing school. Bricks make up a memorial garden wall – possible binding object of demon “to the object of its destructive wrath?” Can’t leave until sure it was Rebekah.** _

Sam knew how this story ended and it wasn’t with the salt and burn of Rebekah Bainbridge. It turned out that someone had else had found Rebekah Bainbridge’s diary and was using it as a how-to guide for meting out vengeance. Only it was the last person anyone would have suspected. 

_“Sam!”_

_Sam ducked his head further into his locker trying to ignore the friendly voice calling his name. Yesterday he’d stopped that guy from beating up Mac, taking a solid right hook to the jaw for his troubles, and, as a reward for his charitable act, he and Dean’d fought. Dean screaming at him he was sick still echoed in his ears, his brother’s disgusted face burned across the back of his eyelids. And then there was later. Sam shuddered. He wasn’t mad at Mac, his friend hadn’t caused the fight with Dean, but he wasn’t sure he would be able to handle talking to him right now._

_“Sam!” A hand landed companionably on his shoulder and tugged until his resisting body turned. “Dude, I called you like five times.”_

_Reluctantly, Sam rotated to face Mac fully, eyes focused on the dingy linoleum floor. “Sorry, man, didn’t hear you. Have a lot on my mind.”_

_He heard Mac’s gasp and knew without raising his gaze that the other teenager had seen the bruise on his face. “Sam?” Mac reached out like he was going to touch his face, but refrained at the last moment. “Did you have another fight with your brother?” Mac’s normally jovial voice was edged in steel and Sam lifted his eyes to meet his friend’s hard stare. “Did-Did he do that to you?” The last sentence came out a hissed whisper._

_Mesmerized by the deadly coldness in the other boy’s eyes, Sam’s mind had trouble processing the questions. “Yes. No. Wait. What?” Sam’s thoughts stuttered. Did Dean do what to him?_

_“Did. Your. Brother. Do. That. To. You?” The harsh bite was back in Mac’s voice as he enunciated each word like the punch had somehow addled Sam’s brain._

_Sam’s brows drew together in confusion. “No,” he answered simply and firmly, elaborating at Mac’s disbelieving look, “Yes, we argued, but that’s it. I got this,” he gestured to his bruised jaw, “courtesy of your friend yesterday.”_

_“Oh,” Mac’s face flushed in embarrassment, “yeah. I’m really sorry about that. Don’t worry. That guy will get what’s coming to him. I promise.” The hard look was back again._

_Scrutinizing his friend, Sam decided to change the subject. “Was there something you needed?”_

_Blinking, Mac’s vision cleared. “Nothing important,” he answered distractedly, “I, uh, I’ll catch you later.”_

_As the boy turned to leave, Sam reached out and snagged his backpack. “Mac, are you sure…” In Mac’s hurry to catch Sam, he must not have completely closed his bag and Sam’s staying tug forced the zipper to separate, dumping the contents on the ground. “Oh shit, man. Sorry.”_

_Sam crouched down to help Mac gather his scattered belongings. Rocking back on his heels to see if they’d missed anything, he felt something beneath the sole of his boot. It was a book, bound in aged leather, the cover decorated with runes embossed in black, with papers haphazardly shoved between the pages. Picking it up, Sam recognized it immediately. The library’s copy of Johann Wier’s_ Pseudomanarchia Daemonum, _the book Sam had tried to check out several weeks ago. The pages overlapped the edges, curled from being shoved in the bookbag, and Sam could see familiar writing filling each sheet from margin to margin. They were photocopies of Rebekah Bainbridge’s diary. Sam stared at the book, eyes widened in surprise._

_“Thanks,” Mac murmured, snatching the book from Sam’s stunned slackened grip and shoving it back into his bag. Standing, the boy zipped the bag shut and tugged on the pull to make sure it was firmly closed._

_Rising, Sam nodded, his hand automatically fingering the knife in his pocket._

_“I – I have to go,” Mac shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other, panicked eyes searching Sam’s face._

_Sam nodded again very slowly, the motion exaggerated as he stared unblinkingly at his friend. Mac turned on his heel and quickly walked away, looking over his shoulder once at Sam._

_Shouldering his bag, Sam slammed his locker shut and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. Spinning toward the door, he barely glanced at April when he passed her. Sam walked out the front of the school, phone pressed to his ear as it rang._

_“Sam?”_

_“Come get me, Dean. I know who’s behind it and he knows that I know.”_

The next entry was the last from this hunt, the ending to the story of the burned bodies of Pike Creek. It was dated two days after Sam discovered that his friend Mac, his normal friend, was the one responsible for the body count.

_**Mackenzie Pierson found Rebekah Bainbridge’s diary doing a school project on the history of Pike Creek. He researched her ramblings about binding a demon and discovered a way to unbind it from the bricks and tie it to him. He used it to seek revenge on those he felt responsible for his hard life. Vic #1 - Edmund Staver – boss who laid off his dad, Vic #2 – Garrison Howard – landlord threatening to evict, Vic #3 – Matthew Escher – had affair with mom, Vic #4 – Trent Milford – bully at school, Vic #5 – David Marshall – bully at school. Sam was supposed to be #6. We found Mac in basement of home performing a ritual to force it after Sam – he had Sam’s gym shirt. Scared, Mac summoned it to protect him. Unleashed and angry at its forced servitude, the demon killed Mac. We exorcised it using Sumerian Exorcism #2 (see back). Minor injuries – Dean dislocated shoulder, Sam bruised ribs. Need to tell Bobby Sam found miscopied words in exorcism when reciting it. Thankfully or we’d all probably be dead. Correction made to copy here.** _

_**To be safe, Dean and I knocked down the Memorial Wall and sunk the bricks in Needham Lake. N 39.735119 W 75.696896. Sam attended the school sponsored memorial for Mac to avoid suspicion.** _

Sam shuddered, head dropping back to look at the ceiling. If his Dad only knew what had happened that night. 

  
*****

  
Dean groaned and stretched like a cat, muscles elongating in a pleasant pull and skin sliding deliciously across the satin material of their sheets. Sighing happily, he slid his hand over the space beside him and frowned when his palm encountered cold linens. Slipping on a pair of sweatpants and a long sleeve t-shirt, he padded his way out of the bedroom.

Sam was at the small dining room table, laptop open and folders strewn around him on both sides. His head rested heavily in the palm of his hand and a cup of cold coffee sat at the ready next to his left hand. Circling behind him on his way to the kitchen, Dean dropped a kiss on the crown of his head and squeezed his shoulder. “Good morning, baby boy.”

“Morning,” Sam returned distractedly, shifting some of the folders to find the one he wanted, “I, uh, drank all the coffee so you’ll have to make more.” Finding the right file, he flipped it open and glanced between its contents and the laptop screen.

Holding the empty decanter to the side, Dean raised his eyebrows. “I noticed.” Rinsing the pot, he filled it with water and set the coffeemaker up to brew another pot. “Find anything?”

Sam blew out a long breath and let the folder fall back on the keyboard. He pressed the butt of his palms into his eyes then slid his hands around the sides of his head to lace his fingers at the back of his skull. “This isn’t adding up. The last time the causes of death were the same for each victim. Now, we’ve got,” he picked up the folders and looked at the victim names before detailing the death and tossing them in a pile, “a burning, a hanging, slit writs, a car accident, a fall and a stabbing. The only one that matches the last time we were here is Ms. Hill and she was the second victim.”

Dean walked into the dining room and picked up Sam’s coffee cup from the table, fingers lightly tracing up his brother’s muscled forearm. Back in the kitchen, he dumped the cold dredges in the sink and rinsed the mug quickly then opened a cabinet to find one on his own. “So, you don’t think we’re after the same thing?” he asked, hands moving automatically to fix both his and Sam’s coffees.

Sam’s immediate response was ‘no’ and if it hadn’t been for Ms. Hill he probably would have said it. “I don’t know.” He sat forward and slid the file off the keyboard, tapping the space bar to pull the laptop from sleep mode. His father’s words sat before him in the man’s serial killer scratch. _**I was too focused on it being the demon that I was blind to other possibilities.**_

Dean came back carrying the two steaming mugs of coffee, setting Sam’s next to his arm on the table. Taking a seat, he was finally able to get a good, long look at his brother. The circles that had become a constant presence under Sam’s eyes seemed darker and the pallor of his face was increasing daily. His posture, his appearance, it all screamed exhaustion.

“Dude, did you even go back to sleep last night?” 

Sam made a non-committal noise and flipped through the stack of folders again. “Maybe this isn’t our kind of thing. It all seems so…random.”

“That’s a lot of body bags in a town this small for it to be random, Sam. I checked the police database. The last suicide in this town was in 1995, a terminal cancer patient who took his own life. Before that was 1928 when the stock market fell. As for unexplained deaths? Not counting those in 2000, the last was a homicide in 1982. This place is like Mayberry.” 

Nodding in agreement, Sam took a swallow of his coffee. “We really need that file on Sheriff Jones. Is Dan working today?”

“Yes, Dan is working today, but I bet you could distract him long enough for me to get it.” Dean leered over the rim of his coffee cup, taking a sip and trying to swallow the pinch of jealousy with the dark liquid.

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him over the lid of the laptop. 

Clearing his throat – damn jealousy still lodged somewhere half-way down – he set the cup down. “Seriously. The guy has the hots for you. If you could just strike up a conversation, I think I could get it.”

Sam closed the windows he’d pulled up and shut down the computer. “All right. Let’s head down there and get it over with. I still need to look over Michael Blackman’s diary and scan all this stuff in to send to Dad.” He stood and stretched, muscles tight from too many hours bent over the computer.

Dean’s eyes were drawn to the strip of skin above Sam’s waistband that the stretching exposed. He was just imagining running his tongue over it when he noticed the way Sam’s hipbones were protruding more than normal. Sam was losing weight, his lithe frame showing even minimal losses more prominently than most people’s would. “We’ll stop and get breakfast on the way,” he said definitively, looking at his brother’s face when the shirt obscured his view again.

“Not hungry,” Sam mumbled, moving toward the bedroom to change.

“Didn’t ask,” Dean returned, big brother voice in full force. Trying to lighten the authoritative tone, he added, “Most important meal of the day. We gotta’ make sure you have enough strength to keep Deputy Dan on the leash long enough for me to get the goods.”

He smirked at Sam’s eye roll and followed his brother into the bedroom. “Hey,” he grinned, pulling his t-shirt over his head, “if this is Mayberry, does that make Deputy Dan my Barney Fife?”

  
*****

Sam sat in the booth at the restaurant perusing the menu in an attempt to find something that appealed to him. He was serious when he told Dean he wasn’t hungry. His nerves were too raw and on edge, leaving him with a constant low-level nausea. He looked over the choices. Not eggs. Definitely not eggs. Those were horrible when they came back up. He’d learned that valuable lesson at the tender age of fifteen. A ghoul had thrown him through a window and Dean and Dad had given him painkillers with whisky to wash them down so they could stitch the gash on his thigh. The next morning his breakfast – eggs and toast – joined forces with the liquor and medication to wage war on his stomach. A détente was reached several hours later after his body had suffered severe losses on the bathroom battlefield. He wouldn’t eat eggs for a year. Skipping over the egg offerings, he glanced at the long list of pancakes when he saw the waitress approach out of the corner of his eye.

“Morning, guys. What can I getcha’?”

Dean’s menu slapped against the table, a clear sign he knew what he wanted, and Sam renewed his search for something appetizing.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Dean chirped, “I’ll have three eggs, scrambled, a side of sausage and black coffee.”

“Links or patties?”

“Surprise me.” Dean winked then kicked Sam’s ankle gently when his brother continued to stare at the menu with a look of utmost concentration.

Sam startled and kicked back instinctively. No matter how their relationship had changed, Sam was still a little brother. Pointing at an item on the laminated menu, Sam ordered blueberry pancakes.

“Anything to drink?” The waitress took the menu from him.

“Coffee, please,” he answered, looking up at her for the first time. A car pulled into the parking lot and sunlight reflected off the bumper forcing him to squint.

“Sam?”

Blinking furiously to clear the starbursts dancing across his eyes, Sam smiled at the waitress. “Yeah?”

“Sam Winchester?” The girl’s voice was pitching higher with each consecutive word and was bordering dangerously on squealing.

Sam’s brow creased as he looked at the girl, finally allowing his eyes to drift down to her nametag. April. “April?!” 

“Yeah! Holy crap, Sam. You just, like, disappeared the night after Mac’s memorial and no one knew where you went. What are you doing here?” She shifted closer to his side of the booth and curled her fingers over his forearm.

“Um,” Sam tossed back in his repertoire of lies to find one that would cover this situation, “Dad got a job offer in another town, but they wanted him to start immediately. It was a sudden thing,” he shrugged. Technically it wasn’t a lie. John had found a werewolf hunt in Indiana and the full moon was the next week. “I’m the new guidance counselor over at the high school.”

Dean watched the two old friends talk back and forth and couldn’t help but wonder how far their friendship had progressed before they’d been forced to move on. After a few more minutes of being ignored, he cleared his throat to remind Sam of his presence. “Forgive my brother, never could get manners to stick. I’m Dean, the new sheriff.”

“Oh, sorry,” April squeaked, turning her attention to the other man at the table, “I’m April. Sam and I went to high school together.” She glanced at Sam again, a warm smile on her face. “It’s so good to see you.” She looked over her shoulder when a man poked his head out the pass-through window and called her name. “Coming. I’ll go put your orders in and get your coffees.”

Dean watched her disappear past the swinging door into the kitchen. “Friend, huh? She try to convince you to leave your family for college, too?”

“Dean,” Sam whined, fingers moving to his forehead to rub over the skin there. He’d really hoped they were past this.

“Sorry.” Dean raised his hands in an apologetic surrender. It had been a low blow and he really wasn’t angry about Ms. Hill anymore. It had been more of a shock yesterday to find out that Sam had discussed college with a stranger when he kept the entire notion from his family until the day he packed his bags to leave. He picked up his napkin wrapped silverware and twirled it on end. “So, Sammy, you hit that?” He jerked his chin in the direction of the counter where April was filling mugs with coffee.

“Yes. I mean no. I guess it depends on your definition of ‘hit that.’ We kissed once, but that was it.” Sam looked out the window at an elderly man helping his wife out of the car and smiled at the picture they painted.

“Only once? What? She not good?” Dean nudged Sam’s foot under the table bringing Sam’s focus back to him.

“Just,” Sam paused remembering her lips against his, his hands fitting to the curves that his teenage mind had been imagining, “just wasn’t what I wanted, I guess.” He flashed to another set of lips, hands fisting in his hair, and flushed.

Dean opened his mouth to tease his brother about the healthy blush creeping down his neck when April reappeared with their coffees. “Here you go, guys,” she smiled, setting the mugs down on the table. She looked at Sam again, chuckling softly and shaking her head. “You know, it’s odd that you’re here. Mason and I were just talking about you right before…” her eyes grew distant.

“About me,” Sam asked surprised then frowned at how she’d trailed off. “Right before…?” he prompted, gaze dropping to Dean who merely shrugged.

“Oh, um,” she seemed to regain her composure, but her face was paler, “right before he died.”

“Mason’s dead?” Somehow that knowledge hit Sam like a punch to the gut. Mason was a good guy and had helped Sam figure out some things while they were here.

“Well, yeah,” April flicked a gaze to Dean before looking at Sam again, “I figured you heard since your brother is the new sheriff. He was stabbed to death a few weeks back.”

 _Stabbed to death? Mason was the sheriff?_ Of course, Mason Jones. The one newspaper article regarding the death had referred to him by his professional title, never including the late sheriff’s first name, and Sam hadn’t made the connection. 

Realization hit Dean at the same time. “This Mason was the sheriff?”

“Yeah,” April smiled uncertainly, “he was going to be marine biologist then one day he came to school and said he wanted to be a police officer.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “Come to think of it, it was right after you left.” Plates appeared in the pass-through window and a small bell dinged. “That’ll be your breakfast. Look, I’m really sorry to drop the news on you like that.” When Sam didn’t respond, she moved away.

“Hey,” Dean captured Sam’s ankles between his own, “you okay?

Sam nodded, eyes still a little far away. “M’fine,” he answered after a beat, picking up the sugar and pouring some in his coffee, “was just a surprise, you know?”

“Yeah,” Dean eyed Sam carefully, thinking. 

“What?” Sam stirred milk into the sweet black liquid, raising his eyes at his brother’s thoughtful tone. 

“Nothing,” Dean shook his head, lifting his mug to his lips and breathing in the warm aroma.

“No, it’s something,” Sam tapped his spoon on the rim of his cup and laid it on the paper coaster. 

Setting his mug down, Dean leaned forward. “In a town this size, what exactly are the odds that you would know the only adult victims?”

They stared at each other in silence, only breaking eye contact when April brought their plates over. Sam looked at his stack of pancakes and wanted to throw up.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first "all me" chapter.

“Sheriff?! I didn’t expect to see you today,” Deputy Smith looked at Dean in surprise, dropping his feet quickly from their perch on his desk and tossing the magazine he was reading under the kneehole. His face quickly morphed into an easy smile when he noticed Sam step in behind his brother, “Sam, what a pleasant surprise!”

“Hey, Dan,” Sam gave the officer one of his blinding smiles, feeling Dean tense next to him.

“I just needed to stop in and pick up something I left in my desk,” Dean moved toward the door to his office, shooting his brother a meaningful look. “I’ll be out in a minute, Sam, and then we can go find that bookstore you’ve been yammering about.”

Sam and Dan watched Dean disappear into his office, Dan’s eyes snapping to Sam in an appreciative glance the moment Dean closed the door. “So, Sam,” Dan rolled his chair away from his desk, turned sideways to face Sam and leaned back, “I never got the chance to take you out for that congratulatory drink.”

Sam tried to relax his tired and knotted muscles to play the part he knew he’d been cast in this little production. Smiling easily, he lifted his leg and sat down on Dan’s desk. “I know. I’ve been so busy trying to catch up at the high school that I haven’t had the chance to call you,” he licked his lips, barely suppressing a snort when Dan’s eyes tracked his tongue’s path. _Predictable_. “It’s really a shame, too. I was looking forward to getting to know you better.” He ran his fingers down the deputy’s arm, dipping under the shirt cuff to trace over the tender skin of Dan’s wrist before settling his hand back on his own thigh. 

“We could still go,” Dan offered, shifting forward in his seat. Sam lowered his eyes and watched the other man’s fingers slowly make their way across the desk’s surface, hesitantly, but purposefully, inching closer to Sam’s thigh. “I’m definitely on board with getting to know you better.” His finger brushed the outer seam of Sam’s jeans, slate eyes darkening in arousal to gunmetal gray.

Sam fought down the shudder that threatened to take over his body at the unwanted touch and forced his lips into a sultry smile. Dean wasn’t the only Winchester that could cause drawers to drop, Sam just never had the inclination. Setting his hand over Dan’s caressing one, stilling it, he jerked his head in the direction of the small break room. “Discuss it over coffee?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the closed blinds to Dean’s office twitch, his brother growing impatient that Sam hadn’t lured Dan away from his desk yet.

“Yeah, of course,” the deputy rose, hand sliding out from under Sam’s and down Sam’s thigh. The shiver of disgust came on so suddenly that Sam didn’t have time to clamp it down and he saw Dan’s eyes darken further at the misconceived notion that Sam was trembling with desire.

Sam allowed himself to be ushered to the break room, half his mind on Dan’s inane chatter about local watering holes they could go to and the other half on his brother stealthily approaching Dan’s desk. He nodded and hmmed his way through the conversation while making his coffee, infusing each distracted response with enough innuendo and coyness to keep Dan’s attention on him. He saw Dean open and shut drawers, their contents rising above the edges as he shuffled through the depths looking for Mason’s file. Dean tugged on the bottom drawer once then twice, his face grim at the realization it was locked. Sam caught a glimpse of a lock pick set when a warm hand cupped his bicep.

“There’s this place called The Pine Pony down on Elm. It’s a sports bar, if you want to meet up and watch the game Monday night. I hear it’s pretty good. The coaches from the high school go there a lot.”

Sam jerked his arm away, bringing his hand up to scratch his nose and cover up the harshness of the gesture. “I-I’m not really into sports. Maybe we could go somewhere more,” he cocked his head to the side and softened his eyes, “intimate.” He saw the drawer slide open and Dean’s arms disappear into the large file drawer.

“I like the sound of that,” Dan purred, “We could go to Dave’s. It’s a quiet little place down by the lake. They have a live jazz band there on the weekends. We could go get a few drinks, listen to some music and walk the shore. Do a little…exploring.” Dan’s hand landed low on Sam’s back, his thumb delving under the hem of Sam’s shirt to skirt the warm flesh above his waistband.

Sam’s body went rigid, every muscle locking into place. He tried to take a half-step back, but Dan’s hand held him there. “Dan…”

“Sam, you ready to…” Dean stood at the entrance to the break room, eyes laser focused on the spot where Dan’s hand lay possessively on Sam. His green eyes flashed dangerously, an otherworldly fire that flared quickly and tempered. “What the hell is…”

“Deputy Smith?” A woman’s voice in the front lobby interrupted Dean’s question.

Dan, wide-eyed like a child caught wrist deep in the cookie jar, dropped his hand from Sam’s waist and cautiously sidestepped around Dean, still blocking the doorway. “Excuse me,” he mumbled. 

“What the hell, Sammy? I said flirt with the guy a little, not let him manhandle you,” Dean hissed, moving over to his brother.

“I didn’t let him manhandle me.” Sam poured sugar in his fifth cup of coffee, seriously questioning the intelligence of his drinking it. His hands were already shaking with fine tremors.

“Could have fooled me,” Dean muttered. The piece of paper in his pocket, containing the address he’d looked up while waiting for Sam to lead Dan away from his desk, heavy and burning.

“Is there something wrong, Dean?” Sam rounded on him, exhaustion, stress and caffeine working against his patient nature.

“I don’t know, Sam. I could ask you the same question,” Dean countered.

Before Sam could utter a comeback, raised voices from the main office broke through their argument.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Sit down and shut up.”

“I said, don’t touch me!” 

Dean and Sam shared a confused look. Sam took a step toward the door when Dean’s hand landed softly on his chest. “This talk is postponed, not over,” he leveled a serious gaze at his brother.

Sam nodded sharply in understanding and followed Dean out into the main room. 

The kid they’d picked up earlier in the week for puking on Main Street sat in the chair next to Deputy Smith’s desk. Deputy Irwin, a severe looking woman with tightly plaited blonde hair and fierce brown eyes, stood to his side watching the kid with disgust.

“What’s going on in here?” Dean walked over to the deputy’s desk, arm pressing hard against his jacket to smother any telling sounds of the hidden file crinkling.

“Found him passed out beside Earl’s liquor store cradling an empty bottle of Smirnoff,” Irwin shifted her weight to her other foot, unintentionally positioning her body closer to the kid. Sam, dawdling a few feet away to allow his brother to handle the situation, narrowed his eyes when the kid flinched hard at her new proximity.

“I’m not drunk,” kid mumbled, ducking his head and shadowing his eyes with the bill of his weathered ball cap.

Sam studied the kid. His athletic shoulders were hunched in, a desperate attempt to make his muscular frame appear much smaller. He kept his eyes hooded from the adults, focusing on the floor. His fingers were tightly tangled together, the knuckles blanched and tips reddened with pooled blood. The kid wanted to disappear, be invisible, and Sam could sympathize. 

“No?” Smith’s eyebrows raised in incredulity, “let me repeat what Deputy Irwin just said. You were found passed out next to an empty bottle of vodka.”

Sam’s attention snapped from his contemplation of the kid to Deputy Irwin. “Did you see him drink anything from the bottle?”

“Who are you?” Irwin sneered, voice making it obvious her opinion of Sam’s interference.

“He’s my brother,” Dean explained. Turning, he shot Sam a questioning gaze. 

“Deputy, did you see him drink anything from the bottle?” Sam could see Dean silently asking him if he knew what he was doing and he honestly hoped he did.

“No.”

“Does he smell of alcohol?” Sam hoped the kid’s morning breath was strong enough to cover the slight odor vodka left. He wasn’t sure if the kid was smart or just lucky that he’d chosen to drown his sorrows in the liquor hardest to detect by smell.

“Like I’m gonna shove my nose up in his grill,” she responded, crossing her hands over her chest, “probably smells like he’s been going down on alley rats,” she wrinkled her nose in distaste.

Sam barely kept his eyes from rolling. He hated when people tried to use language that was obviously not designed for them. It was like seeing someone in an ill-fitting suit. Uncomfortable and awkward. “Do you have any proof that this kid drank that bottle of vodka?”

Dean stood and watched Sam question his deputy with barely concealed pride. Sam had studied to be a lawyer, and for the first time Dean saw how well the profession would have suited his brother. Sam was a natural – picking away at the deputy’s story and putting her on the defensive. He wasn’t sure what his brother’s interest was in the kid, but he was willing to let him see this to the end.

“Just what I saw,” Irwin snarled, “Pardon me, if I don’t see it as much of a stretch.”

“No one is questioning what you saw, deputy, just your interpretation of it,” Sam said, solicitously. He modulated his voice lower, quieting in inverted proportion to the woman’s increasing volume. 

“He was passed out with a bottle,” she hissed and Dean had to hide his smirk. Sam had her so twisted up in her own anger, she couldn’t see straight. If Dean cared at all about Deputy Irwin, he’d almost feel sorry for her. She was being played like a Stradivarius by an undergraduate law student. 

“Do you plan to administer a breath-a-lizer?” Sam changed tactics, obviously stunning the woman by the look on her face.

“Yes,” she answered at the same time Smith said “no.”

Looking at his fellow officer, Deputy Smith announced what Sam already knew, “Kid isn’t slurring, staggering or stumbling. You didn’t witness him drinking. He wasn’t driving suspiciously.”

“He could have just decided to take a nap in an empty alley and use a discarded bottle as a teddy bear. Unfortunate choice, yes, but not arrestable.” Sam finished. Motioning to the cuffs, he raised a brow in challenge. “You want to take those cuffs off?”

As soon as the metal circlets were free, the kid was up like a shot. Eyes darting around to the gathered adults, disbelieving his good fortune, he hurried toward the door like he was afraid that someone would change their mind. Sam caught up with him just before the main entrance, hand on the door to keep the kid from leaving.

“Fuck!” The kid tilted his face to the ceiling with his eyes shut, head slightly shaking back and forth. “Knew it was a trick,” he murmured, eyes opening to stare at the acoustic tiles, “can’t fucking trust anyone.” He lowered his head and faced Sam, wrists submissively extended to be cuffed again.

“You’re free,” Sam assured, “I just thought it would be fair to tell me your name since I just saved your ass from going to juvie.” 

The kid considered him with a wary, guarded expression, instinctively taking a step back. “You’re the new guidance counselor at the school.” Sam nodded, trying to make his stance as non-confrontational as possible. “What are you doing here? You just hang out at the sheriff’s office on the weekends hoping to stumble across some teenager in need of your services?”

“Nah,” Sam smiled, “My pain in the ass big brother is the new sheriff. He needed to stop by and pick up something.”

“The dude who told me off for having a shitty fake ID?” The kid flicked a glance at Dean, who was still standing at Deputy Smith’s desk with a curious look on his face.

“Sounds like something he’d say,” Sam shook his head, “So, you got a name?”

The kid eyed him again. “Evan.”

“Well, Evan, nice to meet you. I’m Sam Winchester,” he held his hand out and tried to ignore the way the kid winced. He smiled again when Evan shook his hand and glanced back at Dean, “You know my brother is going to be a little bit longer, you want to maybe keep me company while I wait?”

“Like I have a choice,” Evan rolled his eyes to emphasize his sarcasm, “I either talk to you now or tomorrow, right?”

Sam’s hands came up in surrender. “You don’t have to talk to me at all, man,” his eyes took the boy in, “You could always go home.”

Fear flashed through Evan’s eyes, his face paling to a ghostly white, and he licked his lips nervously. “N-no,” he stammered, his earlier bravado evaporating, “Sorry. I could, I could stay for a little while. Talk. I don’t have to go h-home right now.”

“Good,” Sam held his hand out to lead Evan to the break room, “You gotta see their break room. It’s loaded.” Passing Dean he gave his brother his best ‘trust me’ look. “Just let me know when you’re ready to go, Dean. Evan and I will be in the break room raiding your pantry.”

Dean watched Sam usher Evan into the small room, unsure what exactly was going on. He shrugged at Smith and Irwin’s confused faces and went back into his office to find something to occupy him for a little while.

Sam made Evan a cup of hot chocolate and they sat at the table with an open bag of Oreos between them. They talked about Pike Creek and the high school’s chances of going to state in soccer. Evan was a mid-fielder and liked playing defense more than offense. Evan started to open up and topics changed at random until finally settling on family. Sam shared some of his and Dean’s worst prank wars and Evan confessed that his father had lost his job at the mill last year. 

Sam took in the boy’s form. The mention of his father had Evan going from the laid back posture he’d had during their discussion about soccer to hunched over and curled in. Sam took a steadying breath and wondered if he was about to make a difference or a mistake. “When did he start hitting you?”

Evan’s eyes widened and his hands curled around his mug trembled, spilling the half full contents. A brown river flowed across the white table and tumbled over the edge in a chocolate waterfall to pool on the floor. “I-I don’t know,” Evan started, the denial dying on his tongue. “Shit!” He grabbed some napkins from the metal dispenser on the table and began to dab at the running liquid.

Sam placed one of his hands over Evan’s, stilling the frantic movements, the younger man’s hand completely engulfed. “Leave it,” he said, softly. The cascade over the side had dwindled to trickling drops that sprayed Sam’s jeans leg. The mess wasn’t going anywhere.

Evan took a deep breath and stared at the amorphous brown islands that had escaped the napkins absorbency. Sam felt the tremors that coursed through the younger man’s body in the hand under his own. Evan had told Sam he was a junior, not more than seventeen, and at that fragile stage where the world expected you to be a man, but you weren’t sure you’re ready to be. An insecurity that came fast on the heels of puberty, for some more so than others. Evan was still a kid, a scared kid, and someone had taken advantage of that.

“Things were fine for a few weeks,” Evan started quietly, eyes still focused on the spilled hot chocolate. From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean hovering just outside the doorway and shook his head minutely to keep his brother there. “Then he started drinking. It wasn’t too bad at first, a couple of beers while watching TV. When Mom finally had enough and left, it went from empty cans in the living room to an empty bottle.” Evan ran his finger through some the wetness on the table, drawing spirals. “I don’t remember what I did that first time,” his voice was barely above a whisper, but carried clearly in the stillness of the break room, “just that he was so…angry with me. I told my friends it was a thrown elbow in a game. I think they believed me at first, but when it kept happening they questioned it more. I stopped hanging out with them, kept to myself.”

“And when did he take it farther?” Sam prompted gently, knowing there was more to this story. 

Evan’s gaze lifted from the table, tears gathered along his lower lids, and gasped a shuddery exhale. He searched Sam’s expression, pain and an aged weariness in his eyes. “A-about a month ago,” he breathed, the words barely given a voice.

“Evan,” Sam squeezed the hand in his grasp, certain that the teenager had forgotten it was there.

Evan shoved away from the table violently, his chair tipping over with the sudden movement, and Sam’s ingrained training forced him to his feet as well. Dean stood just beyond the doorway, ready to enter and help if Sam needed it. 

Evan’s face was red and twisted in anger, hot tears falling unbidden over his cheeks. “I know!” he yelled, “I’m pathetic. I should have walked away. I should have laid that old fucker out, but Jenna…” he trailed off, the anger ebbing to be replaced by hurt. “Sh-she’s only thirteen and so fucking innocent and he,” Evan broke off on a sob, “he said…” he shook his head, blinking furiously, “I couldn’t let him. It was just blow jobs,” he turned watery eyes to Sam, begging him to understand, “I’d do anything for her. It was just blow jobs.” He leaned back against the wall and crumpled to the floor, deep sobs wrenched from his chest. 

Sam moved quickly to the boy’s side, maintaining a small distance and allowing Evan to make the first move. To his surprise, the teenager turned to him and fisted his hands in Sam’s shirt, burying his face in Sam’s chest, tears soaking fast into the flannel. Sam situated them so he was seated next to Evan, arms cradling the distraught youth. Dean stood framed in the doorway, shocked and slightly green and Sam knew he’d overheard everything.

Sam rubbed Evan’s back and whispered, “You can’t let him continue to do this to you. I know you’re trying to protect your sister, but you deserve to be protected too.”

Evan jerked back. “They’ll take us away. I can’t lose Jenna. I can’t,” he implored, fingers tightening harder around the fabric of Sam’s shirt.

Sam understood the boy’s fears about foster homes. There had been one time in New Mexico where he and Dean’d been picked up by CPS and separated. They were only in those homes for two days before John came and collected them in the night, but it had been the worst two days of Sam’s childhood. He’d spent the entirety of it curled in a ball on his bed, refusing to eat or talk and falling into fitful sleeps. “Do you know where your mother is?”

Evan shook his head, “She – I haven’t heard from her since she left. I tried to call, but the number was disconnected.”

“Do you have any other family?” Sam asked, calmly. Anger boiling just beneath the surface that Evan’s mom would just abandon them like that.

“My nana, my dad’s mom, lives in Wilson. This would break her though. She thinks my dad hung the fucking moon.”

Sam closed his eyes and took a breath. This kid reminded him so much of Dean it made his chest ache. Evan was concerned about everyone but himself. “Don’t you think it would break her more to know that you were suffering to spare her feelings?”

Evan stared at Sam, considering his words, and Sam saw the moment that the younger boy accepted them. Evan bowed his head and nodded, slow tears dripping from the edge of his jaw. Sam pulled him close again, surprised once more by how easily the traumatized boy came to him. “Evan, where is Jenna right now?”

Evan looked at the clock above the sink. “Soccer practice over at Bulow Park. She wants to be like me.” His breath hitched and his body shook.

Sam watched Dean disappear, heard him bark orders at Smith to get to Bulow Park and pick up Jenna. When Dean ducked his head back in and mouthed ‘nana’, Sam rubbed Evan’s shoulder. “Evan, what is your nana’s name? We need to call her to come get you and your sister.” 

“Olivia Thompson.” 

A flash of brown leather and Dean was telling Irwin to get Olivia Thompson from Wilson on the phone. Sam nodded his head and rocked Evan until his cries stopped. He helped him up from the floor and guided him to the couch in the corner, stumbling over his own feet and those of the boy clinging to him. He sat on the couch with Evan until Jenna arrived and took his place then stood sentinel over them until Olivia Thompson came to collect them.

Hours later, Dean and Sam sat on the couch that had been occupied by the Thompson family until a few minutes prior. Ian Thompson was now in Holding Cell 1 awaiting transfer to the county lockup where he would stay until his trial. Evan and Jenna Thompson were on their way to Wilson with their nana, the older woman heartbroken over her son’s actions and heartsick over what her grandson had endured. Everyone had tried to keep Jenna ignorant of what was going on, but Sam could tell that she already knew what her brother had done to keep her safe. It was tragic and it was unfair. Sam started to wonder if there was something in the Pike Creek’s water supply that made the men act this way. Just to be safe he decided to pick up some bottled water on the way home.

“You did really good with him,” Dean nudged his shoulder, sloshing the coffee in Sam’s mug.

“Thanks. Lots of practice,” Sam answered, quietly. At Dean’s raised eyebrow, he elaborated, “I met Jess at an abuse center. We ended up volunteering there quite a bit. She always said I had a gift with them.” He huffed a humorless laugh.

“I didn’t know that,” Dean took a sip of his coffee. Sam rarely talked about Jess or their life together and Dean figured it was easier for him to deal with the grief that way. He stood and went to the sink to rinse his cup. “How did you make the connection from passed out in an alley to abuse victim?” Dean’d been wondering that for the last few hours. Nothing about the kid had tipped him off as being anything more than a delinquent, but Sam had known right away.

“Like knows like,” Sam’s voice was distant, eyes staring unseeingly at the far wall.

That brought Dean up short. It was the same thing that their dad always said about recognizing other hunters. “What do you mean?”

Blinking hard a few times, Sam looked at his brother and shrugged, shaking his head, “Nothing. Doesn’t matter. I just know the signs.” Sam ran the tip of his index finger around the rim of his cup and tracked the oscillations.

Realization struck Dean and left him breathless. _Like knows like._ I met Jess at an abuse center. Someone had hurt his Sammy. The thought left a sick hollow in his stomach and, for a moment, Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted to break something or throw up. A tentative touch on his arm jerked him from his thoughts to see that he’d zoned out and Sam was now beside him, rinsing his own cup.

“You okay, De…” Sam’s question was cut off by Dean’s lips crashing hard against his own.

Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s shoulders and fisted his hands in Sam’s hair. He wanted to envelope Sam, encase him in the protective cocoon of his body and shelter him from everything in the world. _Someone hurt Sam._ It ran like a mantra through his brain and his arms tightened around his brother. The need to feel his brother there, safe and whole, was all-encompassing. He backed him up against the wall and pressed him firmly into the drywall, searching with the toe of his boot for the edge of the door. Finding it, he kicked it shut and thumbed the lock. Helen, the weekend dispatcher, was the only one in the building, seated at her desk on the other side of the office, but Dean didn’t want to take the chance. He had a passing moment of gratitude that Smith and Irwin had left right after the Thompsons to do their afternoon patrol.

He tore his mouth away from Sam’s and made a wet track down his neck from ear to shoulder, biting the crook hard to hear Sam moan. “You have to be quiet, Sammy,” he panted, grinding his hips against his brother’s to feel the beginnings of Sam’s arousal, “Don’t want to give poor Helen a heart attack.” He slid his hands down the front of Sam’s torso, snaking it under the t-shirt and flannel to rake his fingernails against Sam’s stomach and sides. He made lazy tracks that ended at the fly of Sam’s jeans and with quick movements had them unbuttoned and unzipped, a groan emitting from Sam’s throat at the release of the confining fabric. Dean dropped to his knees, impatiently tugging the denim and cotton down Sam’s legs, and engulfing the hardened member in on go. Sam’s hips jumped up at the sudden heat and wetness.

“Dean!”

Dean bobbed up and down, taking a little more flesh in each time, Sam’s muffled groans and moans a background track to the frantic thoughts circling Dean’s mind. Someone hurt Sam. My Sammy. Sweet Sammy. Sam never told me. Tried to protect me. Like Evan protected Jenna. He swiped his tongue around the head and moaned involuntarily at the sweet-bitter taste of Sam’s pre-come. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes when he thought back to Sam’s hesitancy during the beginning of their relationship, to what Nathan said Sam had been curious about. Had Sam trusted someone with his kinks and been taken advantage of? Is that why Sam hadn’t told Dean what he wanted? What he needed? He downed once more and swallowed against the bulbous tip. Hands coming up to hold Sam steady when his knees threatened to buckle.

“Oh fuck, Dean. Oh god.”

Sam’s fingers tightening in his hair signaled Sam’s impending release and Dean tugged Sam’s hips forward in a clear invitation. Sam groaned loudly and snapped his pelvis forward, body moving unconsciously toward the satisfying end it craved. The first, hot splash hit the back of Dean’s throat and he swallowed as Sam writhed against the wall, fingers scrabbling over his shoulders. Pulling off, licking the deflating flesh clean, he rocked back on his heels and took in the debauched form of his brother, bonelessly slumped against the wall, eyes lust blown and hair disheveled. Dean’s own need pressed into the zipper of his jeans, throbbing and twitching in desperation. He grabbed Sam’s hips and flipped him over, body rising to blanket his brother’s back.

“God, Sammy. Gotta have you.”

He pushed Sam hard against the wall, rolling his hips to grind into Sam’s ass. He bit and licked and nibbled the nape of Sam’s neck, his brother gasping and squirming with each nip. Dean offered Sam his fingers, the pads dancing across Sam’s lips seeking entrance. Sam parted them easily and tongued the digits, sucking and wetting them. “Get ‘em good and wet, Sammy. It’s all we got,” he breathed huskily, he swallowed down the lump and forced the next words passed his lips. If Sam needed something rougher, then Dean would show him he could be that for him. “or I’ll just have to fuck you raw.”

Sam stilled and shivered, sure he’d heard his brother wrong, but unable to stop his body’s response to the threat. Dean pressed his fingers down on his tongue and he started sucking on them again. Yeah, he heard him wrong. Dean would never hurt him like that.

Dean felt Sam tremble and yanked his fingers from Sam’s mouth, moving his lower half back enough for them to reach their destination. He began his prep, despite what he’d said he refused to take Sam without something, his other hand working over the button and zipper of his own pants. He awkwardly shoved them down so they sat beneath the swell of his ass, cock free and smearing a glistening path along Sam’s lower back over Castiel’s handprint there. He added a second finger and then quickly a third, going faster than he would normally and hoping he was giving Sam want he wanted.

He brought his free hand up to Sam’s mouth. “Spit,” he commanded. Sam took a moment to comply but finally spit in the palm of Dean’s cupped hand. “Good. Now, lick it. Smear it around good, Sammy.”

Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean. There was a hard ridge between Dean’s eyebrows and an unreadable look on his face. Dean tapped Sam’s jaw twice with the side of his hand and raised an eyebrow. Sam stuck his tongue out and swirled it in the glob of his own spit, spreading it over the flesh of Dean’s palm and licking any places that remained dry. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Dean was harsher, his prep more perfunctory than caring, his words biting and cold. He hadn’t called Sam any of the pet names he liked to use when they did this. It felt like Dean was almost punishing him, but for what, Sam didn’t know.

Dean brought his hand down and slicked his cock with Sam’s saliva. He pulled his fingers clear of Sam’s body and gritted his teeth to quell his instinct to go slow and be careful, slamming into Sam with a powerful thrust. He could do this for Sam. He had to be this for Sam. He owed it to him. 

“Dean!” Sam gasped at the sharp pain and clawed at the wall with one hand while the other came back to grasp Dean’s hip, stilling him. 

Dean was just thankful that Sam was going to give himself time to adjust. The clock over the sink ticked by the seconds and Sam finally uncurled his fingers, placing the hand on the wall to brace his body. Dean started a rhythmic in and out. He’d intended for a bruising pace, but his body refused. His skin crawled with the knowledge that he’d already probably hurt Sam with the too little prep and too fast intrusion. He couldn’t make it do any more harm. 

Sam sighed when Dean’s hips started a slow roll, a gratifying motion that had his head falling back on his brother’s shoulder and heat pooling low in his body. He’d been worried after the painful first thrust that Dean was going to hurt him. Maybe Dean was still just charged from the emotional rollercoaster that dealing with the Thompsons had been and now realized that he’d been a little too rough with Sam. He tilted his ass out more, positioning his body so that Dean’s next slide in brushed over Sam’s prostate. 

“Dean, Dean. Right there. Don’t stop. Oh God, don’t stop,” he begged, nails scratching the sickly green paint of the break room wall.

“Baby boy,” Dean grunted, angling each thrust exactly where Sam needed it.

Sparks were flying under Sam’s skin, tiny starbursts of pleasure tingling along nerve pathways each time Dean caressed that spot. Sam was panting, breaths heaving, as his orgasm built. “Harder, Love. Please, harder. Almost there. Almost there. More, please.” Sam slid one hand down the wall and curled his fingers around his once again engorged member, stroking in time with Dean’s thrusts.

“Ugh,” Sam sounded wrecked and strung out, the sound and nickname making Dean swell in Sam’s body. He tilted his upper body back and raised his hand, hoping this was enough for Sam to tip over the edge since it was all Dean would, could, give right now. 

The slap echoed in the empty break room, a red handprint blossoming across Sam’s right ass cheek. Sam jolted against Dean, a cry emanated from him and his muscles contracted. Dean brought his hand down again and the vise around his dick tightened ripping his orgasm from him. He bit down on Sam’s shoulder blade to stifle his shout and pumped his hips through the aftershocks.

“Oh, Jesus, baby boy. Sam, Sam, Sammy.”

The slap had startled Sam. His body convulsed at the sound and sting, trying to get away, and he cried out. Images filtered into the forefront of his mind and he squeezed his eyes tight to lose them in the darkness behind his lids. _This was Dean,_ he reminded himself. _Just Dean. Dean won’t hurt me. He’s just emotional, kids are hard. If his is what Dean needs right now, I can take it._ His dick had gone half-hard in his hand, the need waning, overwhelmed by fear. The second blow caused his already tense muscles to tense more and he felt Dean’s rhythm stutter. Hanging his head between his shoulders, he looked at his own flaccid cock, the second slap having sapped away his remaining arousal.   
Dean’s spent body fell against him and Sam leaned his forehead against the wall to catch his breath. He kept repeating in his mind that Dean was emotional, he needed to focus his energy, he would never hurt him. Soft kisses were pressed to his spine and gentle hands smoothed over his sides and back, enforcing the thoughts with touch.

“Love you, baby boy. Love you.” Dean nosed through Sam’s sweat damp locks and nuzzled the nape of his neck, fighting back the tears from hurting Sam even if Sam was the one who wanted it. Not once during it all had Sam asked him to slow down or stop, not once indicated that he was in pain. Dean clenched his jaw at the notion that Nathan was right. He really didn’t know Sam’s desires that well. He petted over Sam, his mind still reeling from the fact that someone, some bastard, had hurt his Sammy. God and all the angels help that man if Dean ever got his hands on him.

“Love you too, De,” Sam waited for Dean to step back then tugged his pants up while still facing the wall. He didn’t want Dean to know that his second orgasm hadn’t come to fruition. He couldn’t have Dean feeling guilty for taking what he needed. It was really a small price to pay. Thumbing the button through the hole, he turned to Dean and pressed a soft, loving kiss to his brother’s lips.

Dean broke the kiss, emotions still clogging his throat. He zipped his pants and went to the sink, grabbing a paper cup from the plastic dispenser on the wall, filling it and downing the cool liquid in one go. Fixing a sated smile on his face, he turned, if Sam didn’t want him to know then Dean wouldn’t let on that he did. “Jones’ file is in my office. There was someplace I needed to run real quick. You think you can use the Angel Taxi to get home?”

Sam was shocked at the abrupt change. It wasn’t the first time they’d indulged in a quickie, but usually there was a little more…whatever… afterword. “Um, yeah. I’ll get Castiel to drop me at home and start looking over Mason’s stuff.” He rubbed his hand over his heart, the ache there too much to ignore. The feeling that he was being punished intensified.

Dean walked toward him, crumpling up the paper cup as he went. He leaned up and gave Sam a quick peck, unlocking the door at the same time. “Great. I’ll see you at home.” He winked at his brother and tossed the cup in the trash, slipping out the door and hoping Helen had stayed oblivious to the goings on in the station break room.

Sam frowned, watching Dean go. He looked down in the trash can and watched the paper cup start to unfurl from the tight ball Dean had crushed it into. _Maybe there was something in the water after all._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ*

Sam stumbled forward, a steadying hand on his bicep the only thing preventing him from falling to the floor. Flashing a grateful smile, he steadied himself and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“Thanks for the lift, Cas. I guess I still haven’t gotten used to the landings.”

“You are welcome,” Castiel tilted his head to the side and sharp blue eyes scrutinized the younger man before him. “You are troubled, my charge.”

“What? No, I’m fine,” Sam set Mason Jones’ file on the table with the others and booted up his computer, “I just didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I do not believe you are being truthful with me, Sam. I am unable to help you if I don’t possess all the facts.” 

“Really, Cas. I’m just tired and it’s been an…odd day. I was going to go over this file then lay down for a little while.” Sam flopped down on the chair and flipped open the file, heart clenching at the smiling face of his old friend in the attached picture. He leafed through the crime scene photos, multi-angled shots of Mason lying on the ground in a dark puddle with bloody gashes littering his torso. Shaking his head, he set them to the side and looked up when he realized that Castiel hadn’t commented or left.

The angel stood by the table, still as a cemetery statue. His face, lined in deep concentration, was angled toward the ceiling and eyes distant.

“Cas?”

“Sam, have you had visitors recently?”

“That landlord lady came by day before yesterday and Schneider was here last night. Why?” Sam rose, hand moving to the gun tucked at the small of his back. Something about Castiel was making him uneasy and the feel of body warmed metal in his hand provided soothing security.

“I am sure it is nothing to be concerned about,” Castiel blinked, “There has been an increase in the unease that is permeating this town over the last few days. I am sensing it strongly here.”

Sam did a quick survey of the apartment, checking the salt lines at the window sills and doorways and the sigils etched in the casings. Everything seemed to be in order and nothing appeared to be out of place. Grabbing the small Walkman-cum-EMF detector, he made a sweep, the lights dark and the machine silent. “Apartment’s clear,” he shrugged, setting the gun down on the table next to his laptop.

“Perhaps, it is just the overlying tension of the town as a whole,” the angel replied. Sam was unable to read the neutrally passive expression on Jimmy Novak’s face to determine if Castiel truly believed what he was saying. 

“O-kay,” Sam sat at the table again, clicking the space bar to waken his sleeping computer. 

Castiel remained standing, face blank and staring at the wall, “I must go. There is something I must see to,” he mumbled, turning his zoned out gaze toward the youngest Winchester. Indecision and, possibly, protectiveness etched deeply on his features as he regarded his human charge.

Sam sighed, irritably, “You don’t have to stay, Cas. I don’t need a babysitter. I put on my big boy boxers this morning and everything.”

Castiel’s brows scrunched in confusion, “I am aware that your infant years are past, Sam, but if you need me, call out and I will come.”

Sam sighed again, looking to the ceiling as guilt washed over him. He was irritated, the day’s events weighing heavily on his mind and heart, but that didn’t give him the right to take it out on the angel. “I will,” he ran a hand down his face then looked over at Castiel, “I promise.”

Castiel nodded his head once and, in a flutter of wings, he was gone, leaving Sam alone in the quiet apartment with his thoughts and a stack of murder files.

Sam slid Mason’s file closer to him, pulling the picture of the smiling man out from under the paperclip securing it to the side. Mason hadn’t changed much in the passing years: still young, still handsome. The last time he saw his friend was the night of Mac’s viewing. April had cornered him near the restrooms of the funeral home, her grief emboldening her, and launched herself at his lips. The kiss was uncoordinated and sloppy, her face still wet with tears and snot, and paled to the fantasies his mind had created. Her curves had fit comfortably in his palms, but felt foreign and wrong. He allowed the contact for a few moments, giving the girl who’d kindly befriended the new student the comfort she was seeking, before he gently pushed her away.

_“April,” he breathed, resting his forehead against hers._

_She looked up at him, lips spit slick and plumped, and smiled. “I always wondered,” she sighed, taking a step back to put some space between them. Sam’s hands slid from her hips and fell against his own thighs._

_“Wondered what?” he mumbled, forcing his eyes to meet hers._

_“You’ll figure it out soon, if you haven’t already,” she patted him on the shoulder, her smile sad and resigned, “Mason’s out back. He was asking about you earlier.”_

_Sam stared at his black dress shoes, picking out all the places he’d touched them up with a Sharpie before leaving the house, hiding scuffs under poor man’s polish. Dean had scoffed when Sam emerged from the bedroom wearing his nicest pair of khakis paired with a dress shirt and tie, but he’d silently walked past his brother and out the door. The tension between them was still hanging thick in the air, creating a suffocating vacuum that threatened to crush Sam every time they shared the same space. He knew if he tried to explain to Dean his need to be presentable at his friend’s viewing – a friend whose death Sam was indirectly responsible for – that the resultant argument could shatter the tremulous detente back to full blown conflict._

_“Sam?” April’s small, warm hand on his arm brought his attention back to her. “Why don’t you go find Mason?” She encouraged, pushing him lightly toward the patio doors at the back of the main room._

_Nodding his head, he made his way to the glassed exit, breathing in the fresh scent of autumn air once he’d stepped onto the small porch that wrapped the rear of the funeral home. A cool breeze caressed his face and ruffled his hair, soothing after the stuffy warmth of combined mourning inside._

_“Sam?” Mason was leaning back against the building, a few feet to the side of the door, with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. The interior light wasn’t strong enough to illuminate his face clearly, but glinted off the tears pooled in his eyes._

_“You okay?” Sam made his way over to his friend._

_Mason looked down, his eyes fixed on the patch of wood between Sam’s feet and shook his head. Pressing his foot to the wall behind him, Mason levered out of his lean and wrapped his arms around Sam. Sam’s hands came up and smoothed over the other boy’s back, petting the tense muscles. Mason shifted, his head turning to bury in the crook of Sam’s neck and forcing Sam to repress a shiver when warm exhales ghosted across the sensitive skin._

_“He was only sixteen,” Mason’s words were muffled in the fabric of Sam’s collar, but the pain and confusion were evident, “He was going to go to Georgetown and study political science. He was going to work on the Hill, make a difference. He was…” Mason broke off on a stifled sob. “Now, he won’t do anything.”_

_Sam hugged Mason tighter, unable to provide the placating words he knew his friend needed. Mason’s hands fisted in the material of his shirt and his body trembled under his grief._

_Lifting his head, Mason’s watery gaze locked with Sam’s, “I don’t understand.”_

_Sam’s heart clenched. He could explain it all to Mason, tell him exactly why their friend was lying in a beautifully decorated casket inside the overly perfumed and heated funeral home, but he wouldn’t. Mason had good memories of Mac, his friend and classmate, and Sam refused to tarnish them with a truth that would serve no purpose other than to hurt the living. “I don’t either,” he finally answered, letting Mason see all the confusion and hurt he’d felt at finding out that Mac was the one responsible for the deaths of so many._

_Sam wasn’t sure if he moved or Mason moved or if they both moved together, but one second he was trying to comfort his distraught friend and the next he was kissing him. Heat exploded along Sam’s spine as their lips met, parted and met again. Large, strong hands pulled him close, slotting their bodies together like interlocking puzzle pieces. It was nothing like the kiss he’d just shared with April, awkward and unsettling, this was want and need. When Mason traced his tongue along Sam’s bottom lip, he parted them, wondering if the boy could taste the remnants of her lip gloss. A breeze blew over his back, cooling the dampness on his shoulder from Mason’s tears, and the shudder it caused forced him further into Mason’s body. Mason moaned, his tongue deftly sliding past Sam’s lips to coax its mate into play. Sam whimpered and it seemed to goad Mason into action, spinning them so that Sam was now pressed against the wall, hand coming up to entwine in Sam’s hair and knee slotting between Sam’s legs to provide delicious pressure in the right places. Sam threaded his fingers in Mason’s belt loops, pulling him closer, his groan was swallowed in their kiss at the feel of the other boy’s hardness against his hip._

_“Oh, God. Sam,” Mason panted, breaking the kiss. He mouthed his way over Sam’s jaw, around the sharp hinge, to lick and suck down Sam’s neck. “Wanted you from the minute I met you, but you and April…” He trailed off to lave over a spot that made Sam’s body buck._

_Sam writhed under the attention, pleasure shooting along his nerves and heat building low in his stomach. He rocked on Mason’s thigh snugged between his legs, tears springing at the corner of his closed eyes at the new, overwhelming sensations. “M-mason,” he gasped, breath punching out of him in staccato bursts._

_Mason bit into the lavished spot and Sam cried out as a jolt of electricity shot from the point of pain to his dick. There was a rustle of clothing and then Mason’s heat was gone, allowing the cold night air to rush against Sam’s overheated skin and raise goose bumps along his flesh. Sam blinked his eyes open to the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a grunt of pain._

_“Get off my brother, you motherfucker!”_

_Sam looked down, horrified. Mason was on the ground, a dark splotch on his cheek visible in the dim light, with Dean standing over him, fist clenched in Mason’s shirt and right hand raised for another punch. “Dean!” He rushed forward and wrapped his fingers around his brother’s bicep to keep the next blow from falling. “What are you doing?”_

_“I came to check on you,” Dean hissed through clamped teeth, “and saw this asshole forcing himself on you.” He shook the fist in Mason’s shirt, jerking the boy’s stunned body, “You the cocksucker that’s been hitting him. You get off beating my brother?”_

_Mason’s eyes were wide with shock, the pupils blown in fear. He shook his head frantically back and forth, body conveying his denial when his voice wouldn’t work._

_“Dean!” Sam tugged on his arm, pleadingly. “I told you I got in a fight with a guy bullying Mac. Mason didn’t hurt me, I swear. He didn’t force anything on me. I wanted it.”_

_“Yeah, Sammy. Schneider told me about the things you want.” Sam snatched his hands away from his brother like he’d been burned at the mention of the coach’s name. “I won’t let you do something that will get you hurt!”_

_“What – what did Schneider tell you, Dean?” Sam stepped back a few paces, voice weak, but suspicious._

_“Doesn’t matter.” Dean shoved Mason away, the younger boy’s body colliding again with the patio floor. “You’re coming home, now!” Dean made a grab for Sam’s arm, but the younger Winchester yanked away from him, fear and disbelief swirling in his hazel eyes._

_“No, Dean,” Sam shook his head and swallowed the tears that threatened to fall. His voice was soft and defeated, a phonetic projection of how he felt. It was the second time Dean had mentioned Schneider telling him something, the second time that Dean had held his younger brother in an accusing glare. “There’s something I need to finish up tonight at the school, so we can leave tomorrow.” He reached down and offered Mason a hand up, one that Mason took after a moment of hesitation._

_“Sam,” Dean’s tone was harsh and commanding._

_“I think it’s best if you go now,” Sam said quietly, eyes trained on a dandelion dancing on the breeze, “I’ll be home in a little bit.”_

_Dean’s boots were loud as he stomped away, explicitly telegraphing his displeasure at being dismissed. Sam crumpled against the wall, foot kicking back in frustration._

_"Schneider!” The man was systematically destroying Sam’s life. He had to know what the bastard told Dean; otherwise, he’d never be able to straighten out the mess the coach had made._

_“Sam?”_

_He looked at his friend, a bruise already trying to blossom on his cheek, and lifted a hand to caress the damaged skin. “I’m sorry.”_

_Mason reached up and held Sam’s hand to his face. “Don’t worry about it. What was he talking about with Coach Schneider?”_

_“Doesn’t matter,” Sam repeated Dean’s words in a whisper. “Just promise me you’ll stay away from him. Schneider can’t be trusted. Promise me.”_

_Mason nodded, not understanding why, but trusting his friend. Sam leaned over and kissed Mason, soft and sweet, an apology wrapped up in a good-bye._

_“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question, but Sam nodded anyway. “I’ll miss you.”_

_“I’ll miss you, too,” Sam answered, running his thumb over the reddening cheek once more before dropping his hand. “Take care of yourself, Mason, and thank you.”_

_“For what?”_

_Sam just smiled and walked away, disappearing into the darkness._

Sam blew out a hard breath and leaned back in his chair, thumb pressing hard and rubbing small circles against the patch of skin between his eyebrows where he could feel a headache forming. Sitting back up, he opened the duo-tang clasp on the file and removed the pages, eyes pointedly ignoring the graphic photographs of Mason’s murder. He fed them through the small portable scanner and organized everything into an attachment, sending the e-mail to Ash. Squeezing his eyes closed tight, he blinked them rapidly to try and work past the building pain in his head and picked up his phone. As it rang, he reassembled the file, tucking the photos under the crime scene report.

“Sammy?”

“Hey, Dad,” Sam exhaled, closing the file and running a hand over the smooth exterior.

John sat up from his slouched position, elbows resting on the scarred surface of the desk he used to organize his arms dealings. He grunted as his right leg protested loudly at the sudden change while the left made a token complaint. “Everything okay?” He rubbed the offended muscles, trying to massage away the lingering pain. “You sound…off.”

John couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, not attuned to the nuances of Sam’s vocalizations like Dean was, but it was obvious that something was bothering his youngest son.

“Everything’s fine,” Sam answered, wondering if ‘fine’ was the word of the day. “We finally got the file on the sheriff. I just sent everything we have over to Ash’s e-mail account.” Sam learned long ago that reminding John of a hunt was enough of a distraction to detour unwanted conversations.

“I’ll have him print it out for me,” John shifted the pages on the desk, orders and contact names scribbled on partially torn pieces of paper from the pad next to the Roadhouse phone.

“Thanks,” Sam said softly, “I really appreciate the extra set of eyes on this. This whole case is strange. We can’t seem to get a hold on it.”

“Anytime, Sammy. The wreck affected my legs not my brain. I may be down, but I’m still useful.” John grumbled, his aggravation at his situation ringing clear in his tone. He hated being out of the game. Hated that his sons were out there risking their lives and he was literally sitting behind a desk, the only guns in his hand those he was boxing up for orders.

“I know, Dad. I didn’t mean to imply…” Sam rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles sore and knotted. He would never understand why talking to his father often felt like navigating a minefield.

“Sorry, Sam. Not your fault. I’ll see what I can come up with, okay?”

“Yeah. Just, uh,” Sam knuckled his forehead again, tilting his neck from side to side to loosen the muscles, “give me a call if you, um, find anything.”

“You sure you’re okay? Schneider called this morning and said you had a migraine last night.”

“Sch-schneider,” Sam repeated, lips feeling numb as they formed the word. “He called you?”

“Yeah, Sammy. He was worried. Said it was so bad that you threw up.”

“I’m fine,” the words were stilted, his mind reeling over Schneider calling John about him. It was too much like the last time. People talking about him, Schneider instigating the conversations. “Just too much stress, I guess. Dean took care of me.”

“I’m sure he did,” John chuckled fondly.

“Listen, Dad. I gotta go. I’m still a little wiped out, so I think I’ll go lay down for a while.” He picked up his pen and started doodling along the margin of his notebook. The pain in his head thudded in time with his heartbeat.

“You do that, Sam. I’ll call later after I’ve had a chance to look everything over and to see how you’re doing.” John bent over and picked up his cane from the floor, pushing back in his chair to stand.

“Talk to you soon,” Sam closed his phone, tossing it down on the table. He stared at his computer and contemplated trying to get a few things done, but exhaustion was pressing against him heavily and the small portion of the bed he could see through the open bedroom door was calling to him. His mind flicked to memories of last night, Schneider pressing him against the sink. Then the bastard apparently called his father to cover his tracks, it was like time hadn’t passed. Logging out of his e-mail account and closing down the open windows, he powered down the laptop and shut the lid.

Entering the bedroom, he stripped his clothes off down to his boxer-briefs, leaving a trail of cotton and denim from the door to the bed. Sliding between the sheets, he sighed at the feel of cool linen against his skin, the touch relaxing him instantly. He stretched out on his stomach, tugged the sheet up to cover his lower half and then curled his arms around his pillow. Burrowing his face into the black satin softness, Sam’s pushed all thoughts of Schneider from his mind and his eyes fell closed.

*****

Dean walked down the narrow aisle, perusing the merchandise lining the shelves and displayed on top. Just as he picked up a promising item, he was startled by the flutter of wings and dropped the plastic case.

“Cas!” he ground out through gritted teeth, eyes closed and head tilted to the side in annoyance, “what have I told you about popping in?” He opened his eyes and glanced around the surrounding area. “What if someone saw you?”

“I am uncertain whether anyone could see properly in this establishment. Is there something faulty with lighting?” Castiel squinted in an attempt to peer further into the darkened interior.

“The lack of lighting is kinda the point,” Dean muttered, bending over to pick up the dropped item.

“Dean,” the angel frowned as he continued to look around the poorly lit space, nodding at a man on the next aisle who quickly averted his eyes and walked away, “what is this place?”

“Mommy Daddy store,” Dean answered gruffly, setting the case for _Twinkerbell_ back on the shelf. When silence followed, he looked over at the other man.

Castiel’s eyes were glazed, locked on the TV situated on the display shelf, head turned to the side and brow creased in either confusion or concentration. It was hard for Dean to tell, both expressions always seemed mildly constipated looking in his opinion. A small, neon orange sticky note in the shape of starburst was attached to the TV casing:

**PIZZA SLUT - ON SALE TODAY $14.99**

On screen, a shapely co-ed, dressed in a chiffon teddy and high heels was sitting at a standard student desk, readjusting thick black framed glasses over her heavily made up eyes. She placed the eraser tip of her pencil in her mouth and thoughtfully scrutinized the text book in front of her.

Dean snapped his fingers in front of the angel’s face, prying crystal blue eyes away from the video. “Did you need something, Cas? I’m a little busy right now.”

“Yes, I,” a doorbell rang on the TV and Castiel’s attention was drawn back to the images on the screen again as the girl sauntered over to the door where a pizza man waited.

“Cas?”

“My apologies.” Castiel blinked, eyes on Dean but flicking back to the TV like polarized magnets, “Why is that girl answering the door in so little clothing? Does she prefer to feel free like you do?” 

“She’s hot,” Dean huffed, “Can we focus here for a minute? What did you need? Is Sam okay?”

Shaking his head, the angel looked at the irritated man in front of him, “Sam is currently fine. When I left him at the apartment he was going to look at the file you retrieved on Sheriff Jones then get some rest. I am still concerned that there is something troubling him, but he,” his gaze drifted to the TV when the girl squealed as the pizza guy threw her on the bed. Dean snapped his fingers again and Castiel continued, “refuses to confide in me and I am attempting to respect his need for privacy.”

“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” Dean asked, trying to move this conversation along so he could finish his shopping and return to Sam.

“No, um,” Castiel’s head snapped around at the throaty groan to see the pizza guy with his head nestled between the co-eds legs, her face upturned in bliss and hands fisted in the sheets. “What is that pizza man doing to that young girl?”

Dean growled, lifting the box for the movie off the shelf and slapping it against Castiel’s chest, “Fulfilling his promise to deliver in thirty minutes or less guaranteed.” He pressed the power button on the television, the image going black. 

Castiel pulled his eyes from the now dark TV, glancing at the box cradled between his hands and chest. Craning his neck, he peered further down his body where his dark pants were tented. He raised shocked eyes to Dean.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Dean hissed, “I thought you guys were junkless down there.”

“That is correct. Angels do not possess male or female genitalia, but Jimmy Novak does. I did not realize this body would react to that type of stimulation. I have witnessed you and your brother during copulation in the past and have not been affected. Possibly, because Jimmy was heterosexual?”

The man that had skulked off earlier had made his way back down the aisle and now peered over the shelves with raised eyebrows at Castiel’s words. Dean clamped his jaw shut and smirked tightly at the man. He grabbed the DVD case and slammed it back on the shelf before ushering Castiel to the end of the aisle. “Little louder, Cas. I don’t think Baltimore heard you say I fuck my brother,” he whispered.

He tugged the angel toward the back corner, releasing his arm when they stopped in front of a display for restraints. There were several rows of hard plastic cases, containing different styles and sizes, hanging from metal pegs with pictures of people bound by the various products tacked up over the section of wall. “Now, what did you want to tell me?”

“The unease that has been present since the first killings and drew me to this area is increasing. I have scouted the town and have found several areas where it seems to be the strongest: the high school, a bar on Elm Street called The Pine Pony, the housing community where Scott Bradford resided and most potently earlier at your apartment.” Castiel gazed at the pictures, a few images reminding him slightly of the dungeons of the Dark Ages. 

“Wait,” Dean dropped his hand from the package he’d been examining, calculating the sizing, “at the apartment? Did you tell Sam?”

“Yes. Sam conducted a thorough examination of the area, but it did not reveal anything. It is possible that whatever is responsible for the killings is aware that you and Sam are here to hunt it.” Castiel idly picked up one of the packages, turning it over to examine the description on the back.

“Possibly,” Dean murmured, picking up the box he’d been looking at before, “I don’t like the idea that whatever it is was in our house.”

“Understandable,” Castiel answered, eyes darting from the package in his hand to the pictures on the wall. He turned a curious gaze to the man beside him. “Dean, why are you in this place?”

“I just needed to pick up a few items,” Dean hedged, unwilling to fully disclose his motives, “for me and Sam.”

“You wish to bind Sam?” Castiel handed the box containing a Velcro bondage kit to Dean.

“Not particularly, no, but sometimes it isn’t about what you want,” Dean muttered, hanging the box back on the appropriate peg.

“So, Sam has expressed the wish for you to bind him? I would imagine after years of bondage at the hands of the supernatural that Sam would be adverse to the idea.”

“Not outright, no. Can we please discuss something besides my sex life?” Dean set down the package he’d been studying and picked up the one next to it.

“Dr. Phil maintains that talking about sex is a healthy form of expression. Is that why you talk to Sam so much during copulation? I have noticed that he is often unable to contribute to your conversations, mainly answering in monosyllabic noises.” Castiel considered him curiously.

Dean stared at the angel in shock. “Dr. Phil? Dude, seriously. You’ll watch that douche but not Oprah?” Dean turned back to the display before a thought occurred to him, “Wait, just how much have you been watching me and Sammy?” Castiel ducked his head, suddenly interested in an endcap showcasing the newest innovation in vibrator technology, giving Dean all the answer he needed. “You’re a fucking peeping angel! How did we get saddled with the pervert of the Heavenly Host?”

“I do not suffer from any perversions. I was simply curious about human sexual interactions.” Castiel picked up a pink and silver toy, turning the case to examine the dildo from all sides. “I do not understand the purpose of the bunny. I was not aware that rabbits were considered erotic.”

“It stimulates a girl’s,” Dean blushed, “You know what, never mind.” He snatched the dildo away from the virgin tax accountant and set it on the shelf.

He went back to his perusal of the restraints, glancing at the different materials and styles. He shuddered at one that bound you down at the wrists and ankles with another strap pinning your waist to the mattress and almost walked out completely at the one that hogtied your partner. In the past, Dean had been known to use things, basic dildos, blindfolds and that one time silk panties – the more vanilla of the kinky options – but he’d never been into BDSM. Life, especially their life, was hard and often painful. Sex was about pleasure, getting worked up and then getting off. He’d spent too many hours tied to absurdly sturdy furniture with the threat of death hanging over his head to ever consider that in the bedroom. 

He glanced up at the pictures. Supine women cuffed and strapped, their feet held high and wide, prone men belted into a kneeling position with a spreader bar secured at their ankles. Each one of them exposed and vulnerable, their bodies debased to nothing more than a fucktoy. Dean tried to imagine Sam in one of their places, substituting his brother for the model, and his stomach turned. There might have been a time, before Sam, that Dean would have considered engaging in the seedier side of sex, some random fuck along the highway, some nameless faceless person who might have wanted more, but not Sam, never with Sam. He loved Sam, was in love with Sam, and there were certain things Dean couldn’t, wouldn’t, do to the person he loved. 

He couldn’t understand how Sam could want such a thing. Dean stared at the pictures again, he’d seen some of them before, years ago. Once Sam had fallen into a migraine induced sleep last night, Dean’d lay awake staring at the ceiling, his conversation with Nathan replaying in his head. It wasn’t the first time Nathan had warned Dean about Sam’s sexual proclivities. Back during their previous visit to Pike Creek, Nathan had suggested that Sam was curious, experimenting with the more painful side of pleasure. It took Dean an afternoon on Sam’s confiscated laptop, his punishment for leaving it lying around and allowing Nathan to find it, to see that the coach was right. The browser history was full of hardcore porn websites, people trussed up, whipped, humiliated. Dean wasn’t a prude by any stretch of the imagination, so the fact that Sam was looking up these sites didn’t bother him, it was the idea of Sam allowing someone to put him in that position. He deleted the browser history so their father wouldn’t find out and vowed to keep a closer eye on his brother. In the two years after Pike Creek, but before Stanford, Dean never discovered anymore of those sites on Sam’s computer and Sam acted like a normal sullen, wholesome teenager. Finally, he wrote the incident off as teenage sexual discovery and promptly forgot about the whole thing. Until Nathan reminded him last night.

“You gentlemen have any questions?”

Dean spun around to see a young boy – man? – standing beside him, face overly cheerful and voice overly helpful for a store where most people liked to remain happily anonymous. He didn’t appear to be more than nineteen or twenty and twinkier than a Hostess snack cake. His eyes were rimmed heavily in kohl and his clothing accentuated his slight body – the sparkly purple shirt clung to his undefined chest and concave stomach, artfully cut to reveal smooth, pale skin, and his skinny jeans hung below the bony prominences of his hips and snugged the boy’s pencil thin legs. His shaggy hair was styled messily in the tousled look that was all the rage now and that Dean despised, shiny glitter catching the light when the kid turned his head.

Castiel looked up from the newest dildo he’d taken from the shelf and showed it to the boy. Dean caught the words King Kong on label beside a picture of a large gorilla before the kid took it. “Yes, can you explain how something of that magnitude can fit past the tightly muscled sphincter of the human anus?”

Dean groaned, barely suppressing the urge to facepalm. 

The boy winked at Dean, “Well, Sugarlips, a lot of patience and a buttload of lube,” the kid laughed at his own joke, “Some men find the King Kong and Moby Dick vibrators uncomfortable and more than a little intimidating, but from the looks of tall, dark and smoking here,” black lined brown eyes dropped to the crotch of Dean’s jeans in an appreciating gaze, “I’d say you’re used to living life large.”

“Hey!” Dean protested, hands moving to block the young twink’s view of his groin.

Castiel smiled proudly at Dean, “Yes, Dean is impressively proportioned, a testament to the Father’s design, but if you truly want to witness the golden ratio, you should see Sam.”

“Oh, really,” the kid smirked, eyebrows raised in interest.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Dean cut a hand through the air, “there will be no witnessing of Sam. Got it?” He glared at the two other men.

“Possessive,” the boy purred, drawing out the word, “you’re really hot when your eyes flash like that. So you guys do a threesome thing with this Sam guy?”

“We are often together,” Castiel replied as Dean answered, gruffly, “There is no threesome. It’s me and Sam. Period.”

“Oh, so Sam is your…” The boy prompted.

“Br-“

“Boyfriend,” Dean interrupted Castiel, shooting a hard look at the loose-lipped angel. Of course with this kid, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he found the idea of incest a turn-on. “Look, I just want to pick up a few things and get out of here.” He focused his attention back to the bondage display.

From the corner of his eye, Dean could see the boy watching him as a slow, knowing smile curled the corners of his lips up. “You new to BDSM?” Dean refused to acknowledge him, he was uncomfortable enough with this and didn’t need any Adam Lambert wannabe giving him a hard time. “You know, I work in a sex shop. I could probably help you if you tell me what you’re looking for.”

“My…boyfriend is interested in a little more in the bedroom. I thought I’d come and see what was available.”

“Your boyfriend is interested,” the kid repeated, slowly, “but you’re…not,” he finished carefully.

“Not really, no.” 

“Okay. Then start slow with something that you both will be comfortable with. There are some very creative options…”

Twenty minutes later, the boy – Neil Dean’d learned during his tour and introduction of the kinkier sections of the store – went back to the front counter to ring up a customer, leaving Dean with Castiel and clutching a few items he’d decided to purchase.

Castiel eyed the merchandise in Dean’s arms, still unconvinced that Dean was correct in his assumptions of what Sam wanted. Finally he placed a hand on Dean’s arm, “You know your brother best, Dean. I will trust your judgment, idjit.”

“Don’t call me…” Dean turned but Castiel was already gone.

*****

Dean walked into the quiet apartment, careful to not disturb the line of salt just inside the doorway. The light was on over the stove, providing just enough illumination for him to make his way to the bedroom. He pushed open the door, allowing the light to filter into the room, and entered quietly, following the trail of Sam’s discarded clothes. He set his bag of purchases on the nightstand and took in the sight on the bed. 

Sam was spread out on his stomach, the sheet draped over his lower half with his right leg uncovered. Sam had slept with one leg out from under the blankets since he was a kid, creating a homeostasis while asleep. If both were bare, Sam was too cold in the night, and if both were covered, he was too hot. Listening to the soft snores that told Dean his brother was deeply under, he quickly disrobed, pulling his knife out of his pocket and leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. He dug through black plastic bag and pulled a cardboard box out of its depths, tearing it open to get to the item inside.

Carefully, he peeled the sheet back from Sam’s body. Sam snuffled in his sleep, but didn’t wake. First, he slid the nylon strap under Sam’s right thigh, midway between hip and knee, and secured down the Velcro ends then repeated the action with the left thigh. Sam shifted on the bed, agitated by the motions, but a soothing hand on his back settled him down. 

Dean lightly clasped one of Sam’s wrists, nestled around his pillow, and tugged gently. Sam resisted with an annoyed whimper and Dean petted his arm until Sam relaxed again and allowed his arm to be repositioned. Settling the appendage by Sam’s side, Dean surrounded the wrist with a nylon cuff that was attached to the one surrounding Sam’s thigh by a small length of cord. Soon, his other wrist was secured to the other thigh. He picked up the knife and slid the sharply honed blade under the leg of Sam’s boxer-briefs, slicing up the back of one side then the other. Closing the knife and setting it back on the nightstand, he moved the tattered fabric away to reveal Sam’s perfect ass.

Dean’s movements had been slow and careful, not wanting Sam to awaken until he was done. He straddled Sam’s legs, just below the restraints, staying on his knees to keep his body away from Sam’s for now. He stared down at his bound brother and fingered the straps to a red ball gag, letting them slip over his knuckles and between the pads. He hoped this was enough for Sam because Dean didn’t think he could make himself do more. Taking a deep breath, Dean grasped one of the straps, the other dangling over his fist, and brought the loose end down over Sam’s creamy ass. 

Sam jerked awake, a stinging pain erupting in a stripe across his right butt cheek. The only light in the room was coming from the bulb over the stove shining through the open door. He tried to bring his hand up, turn to see what caused him the pain, but discovered that he couldn’t move it…or its mate. His hands were tied to his thighs and no amount of twisting or writhing brought the clasps into reach. His heart thundered in his chest and fear was forcing bile up his throat.

“You can fight all you want, baby boy, but you aren’t getting out of those,” Dean’s whiskeyed voice washed over him and for a moment Sam’s mind blanked. Dean did this to him? Dean tied him down?

“Dean, what are you -?” his questions was cut off by something hard and round being forced between his lips. Cool straps lined his cheeks and he heard the soft snick of a buckle being fastened, his hair pulled into the clasp. 

“Going to give you what you want, Sam. Give you what you need.” There was a tinge of sadness in the words and Sam wondered what it is that Dean thought he wanted. Being tied up definitely wasn’t on that list. He rolled and jerked, testing the bonds, but there was no play or give.

The whistle came a second before Dean’s hand landed on his ass, harder than before, with purpose and intent. His scream was muffled behind hard rubber, strangling it, and Sam rocked away from the sting, tried to get away. Dean’s knees were bracketing his legs and he couldn’t move. From this position he couldn’t get any leverage or momentum to fight his brother off. Sam’s mind whirled, creating and discarding theories about why Dean was doing this. 

“I can be what you need, Sammy. You just needed to tell me,” Dean crooned in his ear, fingernails scratching welts down Sam’s back. “Gonna fuck you good, Sammy. Scratch that itch you have.”

Sam jolted as the eight lines of fire marked him from shoulders to ass. Sam writhed on the bed, one garbled cry coming quickly on the heels of the one before. His legs pistoned up and down, bending to the side at the knee, in an attempt to get away, to get Dean off. The cuffs surrounding his thighs slid down to catch behind the joint, sweat and motion easing the way, nylon scraping the sensitive skin behind his knee.

A dry finger circled his entrance and Sam froze. Dean wouldn’t. Even in his most possessive, jealousy fueled acts, he’d never taken Sam dry. Panic seized him. He bucked and twisted, wiggled and jerked, his screams nothing more than a gargled noise. The finger pushed past the muscled resistance and fire burned a path along his nerves, consuming Sam’s mind and body. His right leg kicked out, the dislodged thigh cuff yanking hard on his wrist. Sam’s scream followed the sickening pop, white hot pain nearly blackening his vision.

The pop echoed like a firecracker, but it was Sam’s scream that Dean will remember for the rest of his life. Even muffled, the pain was heartwrenchingly clear. “Sammy?”

Sam was still beneath him, his back covered in a sheen of sweat that reeked of fear, his pale cheeks glazed in tears. Dean had closed his eyes once the gag was in place, trying desperately to separate himself. He’d said what was in his heart, let Sam know that he would do what Sam needed, then proceeded to give it to him. He’d turned a deaf ear to Sam’s cries, unable to hear Sam’s joy at Dean hurting him.

“Sammy?” He reached up and released the clasp on the gag, massaging the joint. “Sammy! Talk to me. What was that? Are you hurt?”

Liquid hazel eyes blinked at him and Sam swallowed, “Let me go.” 

Dean’s hands trembled, the calmness of Sam’s voice scaring him more than his wrecked appearance. His fingers fumbled over the Velcro, shaking too much to release his brother from the bonds. Reaching out blindly on the nightstand, his hand curled around his knife. He flicked the blade through the length of cord securing Sam’s right wrist to his thigh, his stomach churning at the rapid swelling he could see around the cuff. He moved to the left, but was blindsided when Sam brought his freed elbow up. Pain exploded across his nose, wet warmth running over his upper lip to leak bitter copper into his mouth.

A thud sounded from the floor and Dean looked up in time to see Sam hobbling his way to the en suite bathroom, left wrist still bound to his thigh.

Sam shoved his shoulder into the door, slamming it shut, and leaned back against the cool wood. He slid to the floor and panted, exertion and pain robbing his breaths. He screamed when he forced his tingling fingers to tug the Velcro free from this left wrist, agony shooting from hand to elbow. 

A hand thumped against the door, the knob turning. The door opened a crack and Sam pushed his weight back, forcing it shut again. “Sammy? I’m so sorry,” Dean’s voice was thick, tears clogging it and Sam’s heart clenched. “Please come out. Your wrist is hurt. I need to look at it.” There was the unmistakable sound of Dean sliding down to the floor then his voice spoke softly at the level of Sam’s ear. “I never meant to hurt you.”

Sam started to get up, open the door, but one look at the nylon restraints on his thighs and wrist and he reached up to lock the door. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing. “Cas,” he croaked out, voice barely audible. “Cas,” he tried again, louder.

A warm hand landed lightly on his shoulder and Sam opened his eyes to find concerned water blue ones looking back at him. “Help me.”

Dean thunked his head back against the door, lifted and did it again. He heard Sam call out for Castiel and the familiar sound of rustled feathers. The door was still locked, but Dean didn’t need it open to know that Cas had taken Sam. Scrubbing a hand down his face to wipe away the drying tear tracks, he forced himself to his feet.

He sat on the bed, jumping up when his hand made contact with Sam’s sliced underwear. He blinked away a new set of tears, stooping to pick up his boxers and jeans from the floor. Thumbing the button in place, he looked at the black satin sheets and yanked them free of the mattress, unable to see them and not think of Sam lying on them with that dead look in his eyes. _God, what had he done?_ He clamped a hand over his mouth, not sure if it was to keep down a sob or bile. 

He spun around at the flutter of wings behind him, Castiel standing there like the true embodiment of avenging angel.

“Is he okay?”

Castiel remained stoic, body moving stiffly as he approached the dresser. He opened the drawers and searched through the contents, pulling out clothing.

“Cas, please,” Dean begged, “I never meant to hurt him. Just tell me he’s okay.”

“I placed your brother in a deep slumber to calm his mind. He is sleeping peacefully at the moment. His wrist was broken, but I was able to mend it.” The angel gathered up the collection of clothing and held it to his chest.

“Where did you take him? Can I see him?”

“Sam is safe. He does not wish to see you at the moment.” Castiel moved to the closet and grabbed Sam’s boots.

“Cas, please tell him,” Dean swallowed down the well of emotion threatening to break him, head spinning at how things had gone so wrong, so fast, “tell him I’m sorry and I love him.”

Castiel studied him for a long moment then nodded slowly. Between one blink and the next, the angel was gone and Dean was alone. He stumbled to the living room and sank down on the couch, numb and worn out. _What had he done?_


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ*

Dean wasn’t sure how long he sat there, staring blankly at the wall, before his mind thawed enough to allow his body to move. Years later, looking back, Dean would never forgive himself for this lost time, adding it to a long laundry list of guilt he’d accumulated throughout his life. 

Finally, he pushed past the ‘what have I dones’ and the ‘will he ever forgive mes’ to force himself up from the couch. He stumbled through the apartment, a ship drifting aimlessly on a tumultuous sea of his own creation; an angel taking his rudder, anchor and compass in a flutter of feathers. He paced through the living room, eyes landing on Sam’s tattered copy of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ – spine cracked from use and lilac cover worn from years of Sam’s fingers worrying the soft paperboard during times of stress – to the dining area, fingers brushing the lid of Sam’s new laptop, the flat black stark in contrast to the sticker-littered top of its predecessor destroyed in the crash. 

He flopped down heavily in the dining room chair, elbow resting on the table and hand cupped over his mouth. Sam’s phone lay on top of the stack of victim files, silent and reassuring. Sam couldn’t be gone forever. Little brother wouldn’t leave permanently without his phone and computer. Of course that could be easily rectified by a swift fingered, feathered tax accountant look-alike. Rubbing his gritty eyes, he carefully moved the phone to the other side of the computer, next to Sam’s watch, and shifted through the manila folders.

He leafed through the reports, mind desperate for a distraction from its current torment, re-reading the officer and medical examiner narratives and reviewing the crime scene photos. He tossed each after he was finished, frustrated when his re-examination didn’t uncover anything they hadn’t found previously. When the final folder slid across the table surface, falling over the edge and into one of the chairs, an irritated breath exploded out of Dean and he shoved away from the table. Heading toward the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, he noticed the red leather bound book on the table, the small gold MHB in the lower left hand corner shining dully in the dining room light. Michael Blackman’s journal, sitting exactly where he’d put it after bringing it home. Sam had mentioned yesterday that he still needed to go over it, but didn’t seem to get a chance before falling asleep.

The leather was cool under his hand, smooth to the touch. Thumbing through the pages it was obvious that Michael hadn’t had this particular journal long, the entries only filling a quarter of the pages and dating back to the beginning of the school year. More than likely the studious young man had a volume for each academic year. Setting the book back on the table, he went to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee, waiting until it was done to fix a cup. He made his way to the sofa, grabbing Michael and Peter’s files and the journal from the table. Using a car magazine as a coaster, he set his mug on the coffee table and spread the two files over the top. He dropped down on the floor, back against the couch, and flipped through the pages to find the last entry before Peter’s death, dated the day he killed himself.

  
_**October 15, 2008** _

  
_**I tried to talk to Pete again today, but he’s so closed off. I don’t understand what’s going on. We used to be so close and now I can barely get him to talk to me.** _

_**Something’s wrong. I know it is, but when I ask, all he says is ‘I’m fine’ or ‘I’m just tired.’ He’s so quiet and…sad? Angry? I don’t know. It’s like something has sucked everything that makes him my brother right out of him. I’m worried. I can see him pulling away more and more, fading from sight right before my eyes and I feel helpless to stop it. To top everything off, he broke up with Megan today. When I asked him about it, he just gave me this blank stare and said, “It’s better this way. She deserves someone better than me.” What does that even mean? Pete’s one of the best people I know and when I told him this, he told me I don’t know him anymore. What don’t I know about that kid? I’m his big brother. I’ve been there for everything!** _

Dean swallowed hard, it was like he could have written this eight years ago. Michael was describing exactly how he felt the first time the Winchesters had visited Pike Creek. He flexed the tightly bound book spine and continued reading.

_**I’m certain that Mom and Dad have noticed the change as well. They may be somewhat self-absorbed, but you’d have to be blind to miss how Pete’s changed. I keep thinking I should talk to them, tell them that I’ve seen it too, but what if I’m over exaggerating – being too dramatic and Pete’s just going through a phase. It’s NOT a phase though, I’m positive. Chalk it up to brotherly intuition. Then, of course, there is what coach said. I can’t help but wonder if I shouldn’t have dismissed it so easily. It would explain a lot. I just can’t imagine Pete being into stuff like that. Maybe I should just try to talk to him again. It’s the only thing that I know to do. He’s home and I’ve got about twenty minutes until dinner’s ready. Now’s as good a time as** _

It ended abruptly, the pen stroke at the end of the letter ‘s’ careening sharply on a diagonal to the bottom of the page. The mark was heavy handed, the page almost cut from the pressure and the ink dark. With a sinking feeling, Dean’s eyes flitted to Peter’s file, noting the time of the 911 dispatch call from a frantic Mrs. Blackman saying she’d just found her youngest son lying in a puddle of his own blood: 1812. A little past six in the evening, right about the time most families would be sitting down for dinner. His stomach churned with bitter acid. Michael Blackman had been sitting in his room writing down his worries and fears about his little brother while Peter was across the hall slitting his wrists.

Ice prickled at the nape of Dean’s neck, the acid in his stomach threatening to rise. This could have been him. Everything Michael had described was what Dean’d been feeling and Peter was so eerily similar to his brother back then. Sam could have been Peter. Dean could have come home one night and found Sam on their crappy bedroom floor, red racetracks running the length of his forearms and his blood soaking into the matted carpet. 

Breathing hard through his nose, willing his heart and stomach to settle, Dean skimmed the passage again. 

_**Then, of course, there is what coach said. I can’t help but wonder if I shouldn’t have dismissed it so easily. It would explain a lot.** _

Coach? 

Dean turned to the first page and scanned the entries, looking for anything about a coach and what he might have said to Michael about Peter. Michael seemed to think that whatever it was may have explained Peter’s change in behavior. 

He breezed over retellings of amorous dates and recountings of academic prowess while skimming through Michael’s proud ramblings of his brother’s basketball performances. He hit paydirt about three weeks before Peter killed himself.

  
_**September 22, 2008** _

  
_**Pete’s coach stopped me today in the hallway, asked me to come by his office to talk about Pete. I guess the bastard does know who I am after all. Who knew? I didn’t want to go – it doesn’t seem right to talk about Pete behind his back – but I’d be lying if I said my little brother hasn’t worried me lately and I was curious what an outsider’s take on it was. Pete hasn’t been right since school started, maybe even before that, and I wondered if I was the only one who’s noticed. Anyway, so I went to see him. Coach said he was concerned about the changes in Pete’s behavior lately and thought I should keep an eye on him. He seems to think that Pete’s gotten himself into some bad things. He said that during basketball camp this summer that he found Pete on the computer looking up stuff about gay sex and BDSM and DS and a bunch other letters I don’t even want to know what they mean. Vile, disgusting, humiliating things that made me want to puke. Then he said he saw Pete out with an older guy and that he’s noticed bruises when they were in the locker room. Funny, Pete’s letting others look at him when he’s gotten so shy that he won’t walk around the house in anything less than a long sleeved t-shirt and sweats. He’s even started taking his clothes into the bathroom for after showers and locking his door when he changes.** _

_**I told Coach that Pete wasn’t into that stuff, that he had Megan and they were happily planning their lives together. He gave me the oddest look, kinda sympathetic and almost mean, and told me that maybe I don’t know my brother as well as I think I do. It hurt. Pete’s been pulling away from me lately and then to hear a stranger tell me that I might not know him…it was what I would imagine getting punched feels like. Is it possible that Coach is right? Has Pete gotten himself into something that’s hurting him and he doesn’t want me to know? I just can’t believe that. Things might be strained between us, but I know Pete better than anyone. Coach Schneider is wrong. He has to be.** _

Dean’s breathing picked up. His chest heaved up and down, but the suffocating weight wouldn’t abate. Coach Schneider had told Michael Blackman almost the same thing he’d warned Dean about. Calloused fingers turned pages and perceptive eyes did cursory scans until Schneider’s name showed up again a few days later.

_**September 26, 2008** _

_**I not-so-smoothly tried to bring up what Coach Schneider said with Pete today. Epic failure would be a massive understatement. He was in an unusually good mood – riding high after Mrs. Hill helped him with his last college essay – so I thought it might be a good time to talk about it. I couldn’t be more wrong. Maybe Coach Schneider was right when he told me I didn’t know my brother like I thought I did. Pete exploded! He screamed at me for discussing him behind his back – which, okay, I get – but then he started yelling about how Coach Schneider couldn’t be trusted and that I needed to stay away from him. When I asked why Coach couldn’t be trusted, he just shook his head furiously. He ranted incomprehensibly, words spewing in a rage like I’ve never seen from him before. I didn’t think it could get any worse…then he ran out of steam. He cried and I can’t tell you the last time I saw Pete cry (Grandpa’s funeral when he was ten, maybe?) and begged me to stand by him, not hate him. Told me his life was fucked up and he didn’t know how to fix it. It was heart-breaking.** _

_**I asked for him to tell me what was going on so I could help and he pulled away from me like I scalded him. All he said before he left the room was “I can’t. I won’t have you hate me as much as I hate myself.” What the fuck?! Pete tells me Coach can’t be trusted, but won’t tell me why and then says shit like that to me. Something’s going on and I can’t help but notice that Pete never denied nor confirmed Coach’s allegations. It can’t be true. The kid that just fell apart in my arms isn’t the type of person to want those things, do those things. I won’t believe it. Until Pete tells me himself, I can’t.** _

Dean stared at Michael’s neatly slanted writing dumbstruck. It was like the young man had been writing about those few weeks they’d spent here. _The story you’re about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent._ Only at the end of the Winchester’s tale, Dean left town with his brother – a more sullen and surly version of his brother, but alive by his side not dead in the ground. 

Things started to fall into place, jagged edged puzzle pieces from then and now clicking together to form a bigger picture. Even without the image on the box as a guide, Dean’s mind easily fitted the interlocking shapes, seeing where the sides lined up, now that he had a starting point. There were holes, though. Pieces that no matter how he turned them didn’t fit in the spaces available. He continued to browse through Michael’s journal, looking for references to any of the other victims. 

_**September 29, 2008** _

  
_**I saw Pete arguing with Ms. Hill today. I’d gone by her office to see if maybe she knew what was going on – she seemed like the only person Pete talked to anymore – and he was already there. I didn’t hear everything, but caught her saying something about how she knew something and couldn’t let it happen anymore. He turned around to leave so I ducked into Mr. Rodgers’ office and I never heard what he said. By the time I was sure he was gone, Ms. Hill wasn’t in her office anymore.** _

Dean jumped up and collected the other files from the dining room table, bringing them back and spread them across the coffee table. On the coroner’s report for Julie Hill, in thick, black type, under date of death was 10/16/2008. She died the day after Peter. She knew something about the boy and within 24 hours of his death, she supposedly spontaneously combusted. Coincidence? God, Dean hated that motherfucking word.

He kept reading, skipping over the entry from the day Peter died, having already read that once. There were no further mentions of Ms. Hill and nothing about the other victims until he reached the last one. Comparing it with Michael’s file, this entry was written the day that Michael died. The ink was marred in places, spottedly washed away by what Dean could easily imagine was falling salt water. Grief and guilt forever immortalized.

  
_**October 23, 2008** _

  
_**It hurts to breathe. I feel like Pete took a part of me with him…I wish he’d taken it all. This is all my fault. If I’d just paid better attention, if I’d watched him closer, he’d still be here with me. My brother is dead because I heard, but didn’t listen.** _

_**Scott came by today. I haven’t talked to him since the funeral even though he’s been calling and texting. I wasn’t going to let him in, but he pushed his way past me. He looked like I feel, empty, hollow. I guess Pete took a piece of him too. He told me he knew why Pete killed himself.** _

_**Scott pulled out his phone, said that he’d been carrying around an unplayed messaged from Pete. He said he hadn’t been able to play it, he couldn’t make himself hear Pete’s voice. It was too painful and, honestly, I understood. I haven’t erased any of the texts Pete sent me or deleted his number from my contacts. I accidentally dialed his number the other day and got voicemail before I realized what I’d done. I cried for an hour just listening to him telling me to leave a message.** _

_**The message was from the day before Pete died and it started out muffled and garbled. There was a lot of fabric shuffling and scrapes across the mouthpiece, obviously a butt dial. Pete was famous for them. I can’t tell you how many times I had messages of nothing but his teacher giving a lecture. This was different though, this wasn’t a lecture. At some point, his phone must have slipped out of his pocket because everything got really clear. You could hear Pete crying and screaming, begging for help and pleading for mercy. Rough sounds and an older voice telling him he deserved to be punished. That he was a dirty whore and was going to be treated like one. The voice told Pete how much he loved doing ‘this’ to him, how he’d been teasing and begging for it. You could hear…everything. It cut off with Pete sobbing and asking why.** _

_**I listened to my brother get raped by someone he knew, someone he’d at one point in his life trusted. I listened to Schneider rape my brother and tell him he asked for it. Ironic, how if I’d only listened more, it might not have happened. Pete would never have killed himself unless he saw no other way. I guess slitting his wrists was easier than telling me. How am I supposed to live with that? What am I supposed to do?** _

Dean slammed the journal shut, breaths panting through parted lips. A cold sweat sheened his body, trickling down his neck and pooling at the base of his spine. His fingers were numb, shaking and cramping in on themselves in a gnarled rictus. Thoughts whirled through his mind, there then gone. 

_I met Jess at an abuse center. Like knows like._ Sam’s nightmares. Calling out for Dean, calling out for Dad. Sam’s hatred of Nathan. Nathan’s hungry look the other night. Sam’s reluctance to return to Pike Creek. His neediness. The lack of food, the lack of appetite. The idea that Sam had been hurt and tried to protect Dean.

Dean was suffocating, lungs working, but none of the oxygen was getting to his brain. How could he have been so blind? He’d hungrily eaten up the bullshit that Nathan was feeding him with a knife and fork. Michael had seen through Nathan’s lies. Why hadn’t Dean? And he wasn’t the only one. Dad had fallen under Nathan’s spell. He and Dean both had sided heavily with his Marine buddy over their own flesh and blood. Ah, but there-in lied the crux. Nathan was an old buddy of Dad’s, someone Dad trusted, owed his life to. Sam was so difficult at that age – willful, secretive. He’d already lied about basketball, it was so easy to believe he was lying about everything else too. Sam was acting so weird and Nathan’s lies were so convincing. And Dean had believed every fucking word.

A ringing startled Dean out of his thoughts and he turned to see Sam’s phone vibrating on the dining room table where he’d left it. Jumping up, he snatched the phone before it could dance itself over the edge.

“Hello?”

“Dean?” John’s confused voice rumbled over the line.

“Dad,” Dean exhaled, rubbing a hand over eyes that he hadn’t realized were wet. “I, uh, I can’t really talk right now.”

“Everything all right?” John was immediately suspicious, frowning at the laptop that Ash had set up for him to use.

“Um, yeah. Just tired. What can I do for you?” He dropped down into one of the dining room chairs and picked up Sam’s pencil, tapping it against the pad of notes.

“I was looking for Sam,” John started when a thought occurred to him, “I did call his phone, right?” He pulled his own phone from his ear to check the name on the display.

“Yeah. He’s in the shower,” Dean lied smoothly, unwilling to explain that he’d hurt Sam last night and Castiel had taken him away. Taken Sam from Dean to protect him. That he’d hurt Sam because Schneider told him his little brother liked that sort of thing and against his instincts Dean believed him. Oh God, he was going to throw up. “You want me to have him call you?” He forced out through clenched teeth.

“Nah, I can tell you. Sam sent me the files from that case you’re working. I haven’t made much headway, but the sheriff’s murder caught my eye.” John clicked on a window, cursed, then clicked on another. 

“What about it?” He breathed low and slow, trying to quell the nausea. Mason Jones was one of Dean’s pieces that didn’t fit in the puzzle. Other than knowing Sam in high school, he didn’t have any connection with the Blackmans or Schneider.

“I don’t think this one is part of your case,” John finally found the window that showed the coroner pictures of the sheriff’s body. “It’s human by the looks of the wounds.”

“What makes you say that?” Dean got up and retrieved Jones’ file from the coffee table, careful to avoid Michael’s diary like it would jump up and bite him. 

“I’ve seen these kinds of wounds before and so have you. It was how the military taught us to do close proximity hand-to-hand. The sheriff was killed by someone with formal training. I’d look for someone with a grudge that’s either ex-law enforcement or ex-military.” John leaned back in his chair, massaging his right leg. He’d stayed up all night going over the files Sam sent. Since he couldn’t physically hunt with his sons, he was damn well going to do everything he was capable of to help.

 _Like an ex-Marine_ , Dean thought.

“Thanks, Dad. I gotta go. I have to go check something out. I’ll call you later.” Dean pushed up from the table and headed to the bedroom to get dressed.

“Okay, Dean. I’ll go over the other files again and let you know if I find anything.”

Dean ended the call, hopping on one jean clad leg while he tried to pull the denim over the other. “Cas!” He yanked his t-shirt off and dug a clean one from his bag. “Cas!”

Grabbing an overshirt, he shoved his arm in the sleeve. “Damnit, Cas! I know I fucked up and you’re mad at me, but this is important. So get your feathery ass over here!”

  
*****

  
Castiel sat in a chair at the small dinette and stared at the sleeping man on the bed. Sam had refused to talk about what had happened, but Castiel had gathered that Dean had hurt his younger sibling. When he’d appeared to Sam in the bathroom, his charge’s eyes were glazed over with fear. Sam was afraid of Dean, something that the angel never thought he’d see. He healed Sam’s injuries and placed him in a dreamless sleep to give his mind the time it needed to process. Despite everything, before Castiel mercifully took Sam’s consciousness, the man had asked him to check on his brother, worried about Dean.

The angel often wondered about the validity of the rumors circulating Heaven regarding the youngest Winchester, the boy with the demon blood. For someone believed to have a tainted soul, a dark mark forced upon him in infancy, Sam displayed a surprising amount of empathy and an aura of self-sacrifice. Surely a soul that bright couldn’t be touched by darkness.

Sam shifted, not the restless flailing of the nightmare ridden, but the subtle change of position of the peacefully slumbering. Castiel looked over Sam’s relaxed features. As an angel, he wasn’t affected one way or the other by the aesthetics of the human countenance, but he’d discovered over the past year with the Winchesters that he’d developed a fondness for them. He had a habit of watching over them as they slept, enamored by the youthful, innocent appearance they took on in sleep. It fostered a protectiveness in him that mere orders could not create. 

“Cas!” His eyes narrowed as his named resonated in his mind. He continued to stare at the unconscious man before him.

“Cas!” He clenched his teeth, fighting the ingrained response to answer the call.

“Damnit, Cas! I know I fucked up and you’re mad at me, but this is important. So get your feathery ass over here!” Dean’s voice was angry, but beneath that Castiel could sense an underlying panic, an urgency that Dean usually reserved for threats against his brother.

Sighing, Castiel stood. A sandy haired woman appeared near the foot of Sam’s bed, eyes taking in the form on the mattress before darting to Castiel. They exchanged a look, communication conveyed in the stare. She nodded, a quick jerk of her head, and Castiel returned the motion.

“I will return shortly. Thank you, Rachel,” He disappeared in a flutter of wings.

  
*****

  
“Cas!” Dean stomped his feet in his boots and was tugging on the laces when there was a flap. Turning, he almost slid off the end of the bed, startled by the pissed off angel suddenly behind him. “Finally,” he groused, tying the lace, “I’ve been screaming myself hoarse over here.”

“You believed you had something important that needed my attention?” Castiel’s face was flat and unaffected, his voice monotone and distant.

“I think I know what’s going on. I need Sam.” _Oh, holy shit. Talk about understatement_. He cleared his throat, “I need to talk to him.”

“Sam is still sleeping and I am unwilling to disturb his rest.” Castiel stood firm, an angelic pit bull standing sentinel as a buffer between the brothers.

“You can’t keep him from me!” Dean shouted, violently tying off the lace in his other boot. 

“Are you certain upon waking that your brother will want to see you? I promised Heaven to keep both of you safe, even if it is from each other. I warned you yesterday against your planned course of action and you dismissed my concerns.” 

Dean stood and glared at the man – being – that believed he could usurp Dean’s purpose in life. Jealousy shot through him followed quickly by remorse. He’d done this, forced himself outside of the vetted circle of trustworthy people. “Please, Cas. I’ll understand if he doesn’t want to see me. I fucked up and I understand now how monumentally I did. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to him, I swear, but right now I need his help to bring some justice to this town.” He held out Sam’s cell phone, pressing it into the angel’s palm when he took it. “I have a lead to check out. When he wakes up, just have him text me whether he’ll meet me somewhere. You can chaperone. “

Castiel slipped the phone into the pocket of his trenchcoat and considered the man before him. “I will relay the message when Sam rouses and allow him to make a decision.”

Dean sighed as between one blink and the next Castiel was gone. He grabbed his jacket, stuffing his keys, wallet and phone in the pockets, and rushed out the door.

*****

  
Sam rolled over, the scratchy, cotton sheets foreign under his skin after only a handful of nights on the soft satin. He frowned, his memories of how he got here and why hazy at best. Blinking gummy eyes, opening them only to squint them closed again at the harsh sunlight filling the room, he jerked back when he was met with blue eyes instead of green.

“Cas?” His voice croaked, throat still thick with sleep.

“Yes, my charge. How are you this morning?” Castiel rose from his seat and crossed to the bed, perching lightly on the edge of the mattress.

“Tired,” Sam yawned, propping himself up on his elbow, “What’s happened? Where’s Dean?” Hazel eyes volleyed around the room searching for his brother.

“You don’t remember calling me last night?” Castiel asked, warily.

“I…called…you?” Sam repeated, dazedly. His brow furrowed and his eyes moved back and forth as he searched his memory for calling Cas. 

_“Sammy?” The object in his mouth releasing, fingers massaging the pain in his wrist. “Sammy! Talk to me. What was that? Are you hurt?”_

_Blinking, swallowing, “Let me go.”_

Castiel watched as the young man’s eyes widened, the night before flooding back. Sam sat up, swinging his legs off the side to sit beside the angel. “Wh-why would Dean do that?” Sam gasped, tears of betrayal stinging his eyes.

“I am unable to answer for your brother,” Castiel rose and moved to lean against the dresser. “He did ask me to tell you that he is sorry and that he loves you.”

Sam flopped back on the bed, breath huffing out of him and traitorous tears running over his cheeks. “What the fuck is going on in this town?” He shuddered at the phantom feel of nylon cuffs on his legs and wrists, leather on his face, and a dry digit seeking entrance. His body trembled despite his best efforts to stay still. 

Hesitantly, Castiel pulled Sam’s phone from his pocket. “Your brother called for me this morning. He believes that he knows what is plaguing this town and needs your assistance. He is aware that you may not wish to see or speak to him again, but if you do he said you could text him.” He sat the phone on the bed next to Sam’s hip.

Sam picked up the phone, turning it over in his shaking hands. Last night was the first time in Sam’s twenty-five years that he’d been afraid of his brother. Something was off. If there was one thing that Sam was certain enough to stake his life on that Dean would never hurt Sam without a fucking good reason.

_Going to give you what you want, Sam. Give you what you need._

What had ever given Dean the idea that he wanted that? And Dean had sounded so sad and broken, like it had shattered him to just to say it let alone do it. 

_I can be what you need, Sammy. You just needed to tell me. Gonna fuck you good, Sammy. Scratch that itch you have._

Sam spun the phone over and over, fingers pinwheeling the rectangle on its axis. 

_"Sammy? I’m so sorry,” Dean’s voice thick with tears. “Please come out. Your wrist is hurt. I need to look at it.” Dean sliding down the door, voice soft. “I never meant to hurt you."_

Palming the case, he rubbed his thumb over the screen. 

_what you need_

_Scratch that itch_

_I’m so sorry_

_never meant to hurt you_

Sighing, Sam hit the text button and started typing a message.

  
*****

  
Dean pulled up in front of a white colonial house, the windows dark and the yard overgrown. Unlocking the back door proved embarrassingly easy considering the previous owner, no alarm, simple deadbolt. He moved through the empty house, the air already musty from being closed up for three weeks. The furniture was simple, pieces chosen for function rather than style, and the decorations held a hint of masculinity not tempered by a woman’s touch – a bachelor’s home. The kitchen and living room were neat, counter and table tops uncluttered and presentable, obvious signs of a spot-clean. Three doors lined the hall, a bedroom, a bathroom and a study, and Dean surveyed them all to ensure that he was alone. 

Satisfied that no one was lurking in the shadows, he returned to the study, deciding to start his search there. Setting his gun on the desk, he flicked on the desk lamp and shifted through the layered mess of papers littering the entire surface. Apparently, the pseudo-cleanliness was relegated for the areas that visitors would see. His fingers passed over old and new bills, cancelled checks and hastily scribbled post-it notes. He dug through the desk drawers, finding nothing but stationary supplies and writing utensils. Scanning the bookcases, evaluating each book on the shelf for the possibility it was the false front of a hiding place, he distractedly thrust his hand into the deep file drawer. He looked down when his fingers met the bottom of the drawer much shallower than he expected. Frowning, Dean slid the drawer out and dumped the contents on the desk.

Papers fluttered out, but even empty the drawer felt unnaturally heavy. 

Dean set it on the desk and examined the construction. Rapping his knuckles on the particle board bottom, a hollow sound echoed up and, inspecting the seams, he noticed it didn’t sit properly against the sides. He shifted through the kneehole drawer again and pulled a slender letter opener out. Wedging it between the ill-fitting bottom and the side, he pried the panel loose. 

Lying hidden was a file folder. Lifting out the file, Dean placed the drawer on the floor and sat down in the chair. Pages filled with a neat writing, grainy surveillance photos were stuffed in the manila folder, notes dating back to right after the Winchester’s departure from Pike Creek. Dean shook his head at the observations detailed on the ruled pages, the connections. 

_Yahtzee!_

His phone beeped to indicate a new text and he quickly pulled it from his pocket. The message was short and Dean read it twice to make sure he understood and to see if he could glean more of the sender’s mindset from the few short words. Tucking it back in his pocket, he stood and accidentally kicked the drawer he’d set on the floor. He nudged it to the side with the toe of his boot and noticed a picture in the bottom that had been covered by the file folder. Bending over, he picked it up. Sam smiled back at him, surrounded by Mason Jones, the chick from the diner and… Dean squinted at the familiar face of the final kid. It was the kid that had tried to bind that demon to him. Mike? Max? Mac! They appeared to be at a bowling alley, all young and happy. Except for Sam. Even smiling with his arms slung around the girl and Mason, Sam’s eyes were haunted, dark shadows underlining each. 

Dean closed his eyes, griping the glossy picture tight. How could he have missed it? Then and now? 

A pendulum clock on the wall tolled the hour and Dean cursed as the chimes broke the heavy silence of the room. Glancing at the time, he cursed again, tucked the photo in his pocket and rushed from the room.

He had an appointment to keep.

  
*****

  
Sam palmed the room key in his pocket and pulled the door shut behind him, twisting the knob to ensure that it was locked. Bright sunshine reflected off the hood of an old Chevelle, the glare momentarily blinding him. Squinting, Sam blinked away the tears and walked down the sidewalk. A breezeway bisected the first floor of the hotel Cas’d stashed him at – Sam was dutifully ignoring how he’d afforded the room, just hoping their affinity for less-than-legal financial means hadn’t corrupted an angel of the Lord – housing the vending and ice machines and creating a cut through from the front of the hotel to the back. 

He’d texted Dean, agreeing to meet him at the diner – a short walk away – in half an hour. The diner was a compromise between his head and his heart, the former not willing to trust Dean on his own yet while the latter maintained that last night was somehow a monstrous misunderstanding and that Dean would never hurt him. It was public enough to appease his skittish mind, but close to the privacy of the hotel if his heart proved right. Cas had offered to accompany him, but he and Dean needed to do this one on one.  
At the back of the parking lot was a grassy incline that led to the back of a strip mall. The diner was just on the other side of the commercial building, located on an outparcel near the main road. Deciding to cross the back alley, he scaled the incline and stepped over the low curb. He pulled his phone from his rear pocket to check the time, as his watch was sitting on the dining room table at the apartment where he’d left it last night. 

His head snapped up at the sound of screeching tires to see a blue pick-up truck barreling down the street at him. Without time to move out of the way, he instinctively turned away from the car, arms coming up to protect his face and head. Burnt rubber filled his nose and the squeal deafened him to anything but what was about to come. Pain erupted along his left side and Sam had the strangest feeling of weightlessness before he slammed on a hard surface, his head thudded down with an audible crack.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ*

Dean pulled his phone out for the third time in twenty minutes. Sam was almost thirty minutes late meeting him at the diner, something so against Dean’s punctuality-obsessed brother’s personality he’d probably break out in hives. 

_Maybe he changed his mind about seeing you._

No! Dean refused to follow that train of thought. Sam had texted him and requested they meet. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t intend to come. No matter what, he wouldn’t do that to Dean. 

His eyes snapped to the door as the little bell tinkled, just as it had every time since he’d sat down and just like the other times he was disappointed. Worriedly checking the time again, he thumbed down his list of contacts and called Sam’s number. Four rings.

_Hi, this is Sam. Leave me a message._

The prickling sense of wrong intensified. Something had happened to Sam. Dean knew it, felt it, like a sixth sense, a Sammy sense. Not bothering to leave a message, Dean ended the call and placed the phone to his ear again. It was one thing to sit in a diner booth alone, it was another to appear to talk to yourself.

“Cas? Cas!” He flashed a lightning quick smile at the girl in the booth across the aisle when she shot him an annoyed look at his raised tone. “I need you. Something…something’s wrong. I think Sam’s in trouble.”

Setting the phone on the table, he closed his eyes and rubbed calloused fingertips over his forehead. There was a faint rustling and he opened his eyes again, startling at the sight of Castiel sitting across from him. 

“Jesus, Cas,” he hissed, the irony of the blasphemous statement directed at one of the Heavenly Host lost on him, “someone could have seen you. Most people come in through doors.” Wide-eyed, he shifted his glance to the other patrons, but no one seemed to have noticed the angel that had suddenly materialized in Dean’s booth.

Seemingly unperturbed by Dean’s concern, Castiel leveled him with a penetrating gaze. “You said your brother was in trouble.”

“He was supposed to meet me here,” Dean checked the time, “a half hour ago; and now his phone is ringing to voicemail.”

“Perhaps Sam decided against coming after the events of last night.” Castiel peered out the window, his eyes squinted slightly, disapproval dripping thickly off the words.

“I thought about that, but it’s not like him to leave me hanging. That’s a dick move and Sammy wouldn’t do that. Not to me,” he needed to hear it out loud, “No, it’s something else. Just go check on him. Please, Cas.”

“I can’t.”

“Damnit, Cas. Don’t make this about me. Sam might be in trouble.” Dean’s hand slammed down on the table, his untouched coffee sloshing over the rim.

“You misunderstand, Dean. When I say I can’t, it is exactly that.” The angel clasped his hands together on the table, fingers interlaced. “I attempted to check on Sam before coming here. He is not where I left him.”

“O-kay,” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, “then activate the LoJack, OnStar, whatever the fuck you use to find us.” He waved his hand in the air.

“I am not sure who this Jack person is, but stars will not be helpful in locating your brother. He is shielded from me.” 

“What?!” Dean looked at him like he was crazy. 

“You both are actually. I am unable to find you without being told your whereabouts.”

“You know, you popping out of my ass every time I turn around is pretty good evidence to the contrary.” He leaned forward when the girl across the aisle raised her eyebrow at his statement. “Now stop being a bitch and go find Sam.”

“Dean, you and your brother’s resurrection went against the natural order and created a tumult in Heaven. Our jobs were to observe, never to interfere. Some of my brethren questioned who issued the command to bring you back. My orders were to shield you from any angels that might wish to correct this intervention. I branded your ribs with ancient runes that keep you from being detected by angels, myself included.”

“You always know where we are,” Dean protested, unconvinced.

“Only after one of you has advised me of your location,” Castiel returned, “It is one of the reasons I insisted you inform me when you change locations. Like today, Sam told me earlier about his plan to meet you.”

“But you found me at the porn store yesterday,” Dean tried once more.

“This is a small town and your vehicle is distinct.”

“So you really don’t know where Sam is?” Dean glanced at his watch again, thirty-five minutes late.

“I’m sorry, no.” Castiel’s gaze dropped to the table.

“Where did you stash him last night? It can’t be far if Sam was going to come here on foot.” Dean fished his wallet out of his back pocket, digging through the contents for a couple of singles.

“He was staying at the Stagecoach.” Castiel slid out of the booth.

Dropping a couple of bucks on the table, Dean shoved the angel toward the door. The Stagecoach was only two blocks to the north, just on the other side of the strip mall behind the diner. Dean cut across the parking lot, rounding the end of the building and crossing the alley. His toe caught on a cracked portion of asphalt and he stumbled, cursing. Looking down to navigate the broken pavement, he noticed two black lines, about twenty feet long and running parallel to each other. Now that he’d stopped the smell of burnt rubber tickled his nose, causing his nostrils to flair at the acrid scent. Mind preoccupied with piecing together the information sight and smell were providing, his feet moved independently to where the skidmarks abruptly ended. 

“Dean?” 

He ignored the angel. Thick splatters of crimson dotted the alley and Dean knelt down to run his fingers over the splotches. Pads coming away wet, thick red coating the skin and seeping into the whorls, he surveyed the deserted alley.

“Sammy!” His eyes sought places Sam may have crawled to for safety if he was injured.

“Dean?” Not the voice he wanted and therefore unimportant.

Almost a dozen feet away something glinted in the waning winter sun. Lurching toward it, Dean’s steps faltered as he neared. Sam’s cell phone, lay open, screen cracked and case broken, next to a dark spot the size of a dinner plate. Numb fingers lifted the small rectangle, polka dotted in red.

“Sammy!” His voice cracked. “Fuck!”

  
*****

  
Back at the car, Sam’s cell clutched so tightly in his hand that it creaked ominously, Dean pulled the keys from his jacket pocket. “I’m going to Schneider’s. You do a sweep of the town and see if you can find him. Start with our apartment and the high school.” He’d already called the local hospital and checked in with Deputy Irwin, neither having heard anything from or about Sam. Castiel disappeared, the disturbed air ruffling the small hairs on the back of Dean’s neck, and Dean unlocked the door, settling heavily in the driver’s seat. 

His fingers, the ones on his right hand still stained red with presumably his brother’s blood, tightened on the steering wheel, the leather burning against his palm from the friction and knuckles blanching at the pressure. Swallowing past the lump in his throat threatening to choke him, he pried his hand away to turn the key. He closed his eyes to try to center his chaotic soul, that wild monster in his heart roaring, clawing, gnashing its teeth demanding he get its mate back. Blowing out a harsh breath, he shifted the car into drive and pulled away from the curb.

  
*****

  
Sam felt like he was drowning. He knew that he was breathing, the erratic flash of pain, flaring from kerosene orange to acetylene blue, proving that his chest was moving. He shifted and bile rose threateningly up his throat, the pain in his chest allying itself with a superpower of agony in his left leg with reinforcements from the pounding in his head. He forced his eyelids apart only to slam them shut again at a piercing beam of sunlight that cut through the room and into his aching head like a lance. Opening his left eye, he surveyed the area through the curtain of his eyelashes. He was lying on a camp cot in a stark room, a scratchy military issue wool blanket rasping against the stubble on his chin. Three walls were gray painted concrete block, the fourth an aluminum and metal construction with occluded windows and a door, hanging ajar and loose on its hinges. There was a piece of frosted glass in the door, the shadow of letters painted on the surface. FOREMAN. A warehouse. He was in the foreman’s office of a warehouse.   
His hands and ankles were bound, thick duct tape wrapped in overlapping layers for security. He wasn’t tied to the cot or room, his captors realizing his injuries were enough to deter any thoughts of escape. Testing their theory, he tried to bring his knees up, but barely moved before the pain paralyzed him. He swallowed a whimper when voices drifted past the bass beat in his ears.

“What the fuck were you thinking? This wasn’t part of the plan!” A door slammed, echoing like a gunshot through the vacuous space, and Sam muffled a groan into the harsh fibers beneath him. The voice was familiar, but distant – in the main warehouse.

“Sam was the plan before you ever were,” a hateful voice countered, the voice of Sam’s nightmares.

_No, no, no, no! It can’t be. No! Not again!_

“He’s the Sheriff’s fucking brother! I can’t keep helping you dispose of your mistakes. Smoke screens will only get you so far. The sheriff’s department is inept, but sooner or later even a blind squirrel finds an acorn. We’re leaving a trail of bodies and someone will figure out that we’ve maxxed our quota for suicides and accidents. I’m not willing to die for your obsession.” The voice’s volume flowed and ebbed, like the owner was pacing.

Sam shifted again in an attempt to find a position that allowed him a deeper breath. He bit his lip to keep the groan in as his mind floated on a haze of pain.

“Darling, trust me.” The silky whisper of the devil on your shoulder.

The beginning to words of protest were abruptly cut off and Sam panted through several long moments of silence.

“Of course, Coach.” The voice that had been harsh and accusatory since Sam’s awakening was now soft and loving.

“That’s my darling Dan.”

 _Dan?_ The voice, familiar, but unplaceable, suddenly cleared in his mind. Deputy Dan Smith. He was working with Schneider. His head gave a particularly hard throb and his stomach clenched. Crying out in pain, he rolled forward and retched over the side of the cot, each heave throwing gasoline on the wildfire of anguish consuming his body.

“Pretty Boy?”

Hands petted back his hair in a parody of tenderness, but he was trapped in his pain and helpless to move away. Peering up through tear-blurred eyes, Sam locked gazes with the man that had tormented his waking life eight years ago and his dreaming one since. “Told you I liked a challenge and I wasn’t going to let you go. You’re mine, Sammy. I claimed you, made you mine and I’m going to remind you of who you belong to.” He grabbed Sam’s left leg, squeezing the thigh and causing the pain to burn out Sam’s sight in a blinding white light of agony. 

Choking, Sam’s body jolted, pain electrocuting his muscles in spasming jerks. As his vision grayed, his mind willingly succumbing to the solace the darkness promised, he heard Schneider growl low in his ear. “You’re mine, Pretty Boy.” 

  
*****

Dean pulled up in front of the red clapboard house, absently noting that the only change in its appearance over the last decade was a new coat of paint. The spare key was still beneath a faux rock engraved with the Marine Corp logo to the right of the door and he slipped it into the lock, lifting up on the handle and jiggling the key to jostle the temperamental tumblers into place. Their first time here, Nathan had offered up his home to Dean for company the younger man didn’t want to bring home. Dean had gladly accepted and took advantage of this kindness, not wanting to add getting caught with a girl to the powder keg of tension that living with Dad and Sam had become. Nathan said he understood – a young man had needs and one of those was privacy to take care of his other needs – and made sure that the guest room was always available and the fridge was always stocked. He was Dean’s friend, his big brother.

Heart pounding, Dean did a quick search of the house, stomach dropping to find it empty. No sign of Sam or Schneider. He searched every square inch, rifling through drawers and pulling items off of shelves. There had to be a clue to where Schneider would have taken Sam somewhere. There was no doubt in his mind that Schneider was behind everything.

The furniture was just the same, the couch sporting new upholstery, but the electronics had evolved with the times. The cassette radio had been replaced with one with a CD slot as well and the VCR was now a VCR/DVD combination player, progress still mired in the past, although Dean only found DVDs on the surrounding shelves. He moved quickly through the space, the kitchen and dining room following in short order. The guest room had been converted into a gym, a treadmill and weight bench the only items in the space.

He shut the door and made his way to the master bedroom across the hall. It was utilitarian, only the basic necessities – a bed and chest of drawers – occupied a room lacking personal embellishments, with stark white walls covered from the chair rail down in walnut wainscoting. A Marine who’d never acclimated to life outside the service.  
Dean dug through the drawers – socks, underwear, shirts and pants folded with military precision in perfectly ordered piles. Nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary.  
Goddamnit! He’d been certain that this would lead him to Sam. Running his hands through his hair, pulling the ends in frustration, Dean hopelessly spun in place. 

_Where now? Where now?_

He tried to think back, to remember, if Schneider ever said anything about hobbies or owning fishing cabins or hunting cabins or whatever the fuck cabins that normal people had, but nothing came to mind. The house was eerily devoid of pictures, proof of any kind of life, and Dean spared a moment to question what the gym teacher did with his free time. Thinking of Michael’s diary, he shuddered and decided not to wonder anymore.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, the right resting over his mouth, he blew out a breath, the air lifting his fingers with the force. He stared at the far wall, mind whirling as it produced and discarded ideas of where to turn next. Apparently not all his brain functions were occupied as his brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, inspecting a section of the wainscoting on the wall to the right of the chest of drawers. He quickly looked at the other walls, then crossed to the section that had captured his attention.   
Kneeling down, he ran the tip of his finger along the seams where one panel met the edges of those on either side. Along the other three walls, the wainscoting was hung in four foot sections, except in the corner where the panel was cut to finish the length of the wall. Only in the corners were the panels any length other than the factory-supplied size, providing the room with a continuous feel not broken up with panel joints. This wall was different. In the middle of the wall, a good ten feet from any corner, was a two foot section of wainscoting, a sore thumb on the room’s pristine hand.

Thumping his fist against the section, a hollow sound vibrated back. He tested the panels on the adjoining sides, a solid thud echoing back. There was something behind there. Using his knife, he pried the panel free to find a small alcove, carved in the sheetrock beneath. Three VCR tapes, labels peeling and hanging loose, were nestled atop a neatly folded stack of clothing, some articles faded dull with the passage of time. Dean pulled the items out, surveying each piece as he sat it on the ground next to his feet.  
The VCR tape on top, the newest by the looks of the black plastic and white label, bore the name ‘Precious 10/08’ in black sharpie. The second, the casing scuffed slightly and label lifting along the edge, was tilted ‘Darling D 11/03’ in fat blue print. The third, the obvious oldest by the scratches on the plastic from frequent insertion into a player and the curled label, yellowed and brittle, was the one that made Dean swallow hard. In fine point felt pen was ‘Pretty Boy 10/00’. He set it down quickly, refusing to think of what he might find on the brown/black metallic tape held within, and focused on the small pile of clothing. Three pairs of gym shorts, the fabric and style modernizing from the pair on the bottom to the one resting on top.

The newest pair were Dry-Fit in a deep blood red with white piping on the side and P. Blackman embroidered on the leg. The middle pair were white mesh basketball shorts with slashes of deep burgundy down the side and a patch on the leg stitched with D. Smith. Dean held the final pair, trying to steady his breathing. They were a pair of old cut-off sweatpants worn to an orange-red by too many washing cycles and time, the hem haphazardly stitched by an inexperienced hand, and the leg bearing the initials SW in thick, precise writing. Dean dropped them into the pile of items like they were a hot branding iron, the letters burned unseen into the skin of his hand.

He gathered up the hidden items and carried them into the living room, settling heavily on the floor in front of the impressive entertainment center. Shifting through, he found the ‘Precious’ tape and slotted it into the VCR section of the combination player, its need now evident. Static filled the screen and Dean held in a strangled snort thinking of when he’d convinced a young Sam that it wasn’t static, but a show on mosquito ballet. Sam sat in front of the screen staring at the non-existent reception for twenty minutes trying to discern the dance pattern while Dean sat on the sofa concealing snickers behind his hand. 

A grainy image flickered on the television, yanking Dean from his nostalgia, of what Dean could only assume was the high school locker room. The downward angle suggested the camera was high, focused on the empty benches and closed lockers. A tall figure came into view and Dean recognized him immediately from the pictures he’d seen, Peter Blackman. Dark, shaggy hair twirled as the boy snapped his head around, another man coming into the scene. 

“Wh-what,” the sound quality was poor, but Dean could hear the fear thickening Peter’s voice. “Where’s everyone? I had a note that basketball practice was resch –“ Peter trailed off, realization dawning in his eyes.

“Just you and me, Precious,” Schneider drawled, moving fast and pinning the younger man against the lockers. A beefy arm snaked its way across the front of Peter’s throat, limiting his breaths and stifling his cries. The coach’s hand wormed its way beneath a pair of familiar looking gym shorts. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Dean stopped the tape to the sound of Peter’s frightened whimpers and grunts. He ejected it and placed it to his left, grabbing the one tilted ‘Darling D’ from his right. Static and then the empty locker room again played on the flat screen. A boy around the same age as Peter, stepped into view, a fringe of dark bangs falling into his eyes and masking them from the camera.

“Nate?” The boy walked out of frame and called the name twice more before returning. “Olly-olly oxen free!” he sing-songed.

“Darling!” Schneider’s voice called jovially from somewhere off camera, the man appearing a few moments later.

“We alone?” The boy asked, his face downturned and sneaker toe scuffing coyly on the floor.

“Mmhmm,” the coach purred, eyes shining with lust caught by the low-grade video camera. He stalked toward the younger boy, roughly grabbing his face and claiming – there was no other word for it – his mouth fiercely. Schneider’s mouth moved over a clean-shaven jaw to nibble and mark the pale throat, the boy throwing his head back in ecstasy. His bangs slid back and for the first time Dean recognized the face of Deputy Dan.

His breath caught when right as he pressed the STOP button, Schneider breathed, almost inaudibly, “Pretty boy.”

Lips twitching, Dean set the removed tape to the left and picked up the last one, carefully avoiding the folded cut-off sweatpants it laid on. He fitted it into the slot, finger against the edge to push it in, and paused. His mind argued that it knew what was more than likely contained on this tape and he didn’t need to witness it, but his heart countered that it had to know each offense it was going to make Schneider pay for. The tape seated into the VCR with an ominous thunk and with trembling fingers Dean pressed the PLAY button.

*****

Sam woke slowly, a hand petting his hair that he mistakenly believed was Dean for a fraction of a moment until it curled cruelly in his locks, tugging the strands to the point of pain. He kept his eyes closed in the hopes that his tormentor would think him still asleep and suppressed the shudders that threatening to overtake him with each pass of that calloused palm over his head. 

“My Pretty Boy,” Schneider crooned, “We’re going to have so much fun, just like last time, only now there’s so much more of you to play with.” He dipped close, mouth hot and moist against Sam’s ear, “And I’ve got nothing, but time.” Sam kept his body still through sheer force of will.

The cot creaked as Schneider sat up, the unwelcome strokes continuing. “I’ve tried to replace you. Thought I succeeded with Dan, but he doesn’t thrill me like you did…do. He’s a pretty pet, but he’ll never be more than a lap dog, he’ll never be you. Then there was precious Peter. He was smart, athletic, shy and invisible to peers that could never understand him. Second born to a father that didn’t appreciate how special he was, pale in comparison to the perfect eldest. You can see why he piqued my interest, the parallels were uncanny. He was feisty, had that fire I always saw in you,” Schneider sighed, hand stilling, “He was such a disappointment, though. His spirit was too weak, didn’t possess that prideful strength that kept you quiet. Suicide is always such a tragedy, but to seek escape and leave so many vulnerable in your absence, so many that your actions placed in harm’s way. Threats against his family and friends weren’t quite as effective with him as they were with you,” fingers caressed the side of his face, finger tracing the outline of his lips.

“You don’t know the impact you left on this town, Pretty Boy. That bitch counselor and her lover, that sheriff, with their perceptive eyes following me all the time, waiting for me to mess up. Always so suspicious after you left, but never able to find evidence of wrongdoing…until Peter. She approached me at the funeral, said she knew, that Peter had talked. I had no choice, loose ends can unravel an entire weave, but it seemed everywhere I looked there was another loose end. First, Hill then that Bradford moron, trying to bribe me with a voicemail recording, and finally the nosy sheriff with his secret files and mournful heart. I didn’t have to worry about Peter’s brother. That thread worked itself out of the pattern. Pity, I guess the Blackmans were predisposed to suicidal tendencies.”

Sam was frozen. There never had been anything supernatural killing the people of this town, just the delusional justifications of the psychotic. 

“Nate?” Dan’s voice echoed through the empty space. “What are you doing?”

Sam felt the cot shift as Schneider rose, his footsteps heavy on the concrete floor. “Just having a little talk with my Pretty Boy, here.”

There was a pause and Sam could feel the weight of their combined stares on his skin. “Not sure he’s such a great conversationalist right now.”

“Sammy was always more of a listener. Plus, his body speaks volumes.”

The soft snick of the door shutting acted like a starter’s pistol to the rambling recriminations and self-doubt in Sam’s mind. All those people were dead because he’d kept his mouth shut all those years ago. Their blood was on his hands, more names to add to the list of casualties because Sam was a coward. He should have told Dean, asked for his help, but every time he thought about that night, the words never found their way out. It wasn’t like Dean would have believed him anyway. Schneider made sure of that.

_The gym was dark and quiet, the large building usually a riot of sneaker squeaks and resounding thuds as the basketball team practiced for their next game, but tonight they were participating in a tournament in the next town. Cautiously, he moved around the perimeter, navigating by feel with the rough brick wall as a guide. Light haloed the door leading to the locker room, reflecting off the waxed surface of the gym floor and acting as a beacon in the darkened space. His hands shook as he reached for the handle, sparing a fleeting thought that he should have waited for Dean to get home to talk this out, tell Dean his worries that Nathan was going to hurt their family—maybe Dad somehow. As fast as the thought came, it went. Dean wouldn’t listen to him, not now, and Dad never listened to him, both too twisted up in the hunt, too focused on the darkness they were fighting to entertain the possibility that someone just as dangerous was lurking in the shadows closer to home._

_“Nathan?” He called, stepping into the hallway that connected the locker rooms with the coach’s offices. Not receiving an answer, he headed toward Nathan’s office, hoping to find the man there before he lost his resolve._

_The light was on, but the door was closed, his knocks and calls unanswered. The knob turned freely in his hand and the door swung open on silent hinges. The computer was on, a spreadsheet of the basketball team’s current semester’s grades displayed on the monitor. On the floor he saw a duffle bag, clothes and a towel overflowing the open compartment. Nathan mentioned at dinner one night that he sometimes took a shower in the locker room, especially if he had somewhere to go right after school. Sam hadn’t heard any of the showers running, but he wasn’t listening for it either._

_Exiting Schneider’s office, he walked on noiseless feet into the locker room. It was just like every other locker room he’d been in throughout the years, the walls of the main room lined with two rows of lockers, one stacked on top of the other, with benches bolted to the floor a few feet away for sitting. A swinging door at the back of the room led to the toilets and showers, a large hamper to one side for dirty towels._

_“Hello? Nathan?” Sam called into the empty changing room before slipping through the swinging door. His image was reflected in the mirrors that hung over the row of sinks in front of him, nine copies of his wary and tired face staring at him. To his left was the toilet area, stalls on one wall and urinals on the other, and to the right were the showers, each cubicle curtained off with a dollar store shower curtain. The small hairs on the back of his neck rose, his body responding to some threat his mind hadn’t perceived yet, and he scanned the space for any sign of what it could be. He was alone, no one in sight, and the air was humid and smelled of a combination of soap, sweat and urine instead of cold and smelling of ozone or sulfur._

_“Hello? Anyone here?” His voice was just beginning to betray the fear he felt when a clatter of plastic on metal startled him. A curtain was tugged back, moist air whispering across the bare skin of his arms and bringing the scent of mildew, bleach, and soap to his nose._

_Nathan stood framed in the opening to the shower stall, his easy grin a contrast to his the blown pupils that Sam could see from a distance. He was dressed in black slacks and nothing else, chest and feet bare._

_“Hey, Pretty Boy.” Nathan husked out. “Didn’t expect you here.”_

_Sam swallowed and took an unconscious step back, his instincts telling him to run. Nathan was tall—as tall as, if not a little taller, than Dad – with the same Marine build – stocky and solid with broad shoulders, thick arms, and a muscled chest, muscles formed from work, not time in the gym._

_“I—“ Sam stammered, uncertainty in his plan creeping in._

_Nathan smirked, white teeth flashing dangerously. “Not that I’m complaining.”_

_Sam suddenly felt out of his element, groundless and floundering. Nathan had thrown him off. “What did you say to Dean that night?”_

_Nathan raised an eyebrow. “He hasn’t confronted you yet? Demanded that you talk? He hasn’t told you all the naughty things I told him about?”_

_“N-no.” Sam swallowed, wiping his palms on his jeans, nerves increasing by the second. Nathan considered him with impassive eyes without blinking. “Whatever it is you told him, Dean wants to talk about it after he gets home from work.” He licked his lips. “What did you do? And why?”_

_Nathan’s eyes grew darker, laser focused on Sam’s mouth and the path of his tongue. His lips curled into an arrogant smile and he tilted his head and shoulders. “I think you’re gonna wish you had stayed home, Pretty Boy. Stayed home and talked with your big brother.”_

_Either animal instinct or ingrained training took hold of the reigns to Sam’s body and jerked him towards the door. It was the same compulsion that had him swinging an iron rod seconds before a ghostly apparition appeared, the same urge that had him rolling out of the pathway of a werewolf’s mouth two summers ago. An innate sense of self-preservation, a biological imperative to fight for survival. He burst through the door as fast as his long strides allowed before he even had time to think about why he was running._

_A hand grabbed the tail of his shirt, yanking hard and Sam reeled from the force, falling onto his hands. He sprang back up and whirled to face his opponent, standing in front of the door, his grin completely feral and skin flushed a light red._

_“What the hell are you doing?” Sam snarled, centering his weight on the balls of his feet, his arms loose and hands curled in fists._

_“God, I knew this would be perfect.” Nathan was clearly ready for a fight, too, though seemingly content for Sam to make the first move._

_Sam had his suspicions about Nathan, but they weren’t the physically violent kind. He was worried that he was planning on manipulating Dad somehow, saying that they owed him favors because of the house and the jobs. This behavior was completely unexpected. “Christo.” Sam whispered, getting nothing but a raised eyebrow._

_His heart plummeted. If it had been a demon he could do something about that—find some salt, do an exorcism, avoid it until Dad or Dean came. But a human? There were no condiments or Latin to help him here._

_“What do you want?” Sam asked, partly stalling for time and partly hoping that he’d somehow misread the situation._

_Nathan stood there, dark hair wetly hung in eyes that never strayed from Sam. Sam had to move, had to get away, but the only way out was past Nathan. He knew he couldn’t attack head on—Nathan was a Marine and still in really good shape, so a frontal attack would be suicide – leaving the only other option to try to catch Nathan off guard. Hopefully Nathan wouldn’t expect any formidable fighting skills from Sam and underestimate him._

_Sam made a run for it, feigning a head-on attack and going left at the last moment, dropping under Nathan’s guard. As he passed Sam threw his elbow hard into Nathan’s side, the contact bruising and the coach’s harsh exhale satisfying. Sam kept going, time was a commodity and Sam was a saver. His hand wrapped around the knob, wrist twisting, when a blow to his kidneys crippled his efforts. Excruciating pain blazed through his body like wildfire and the force propelled him forward into the door, slamming him against it._

_Sam groaned, his world barely righting itself before instinct flickered again and he rolled clumsily out of the way of another blow. The crack of Nathan’s knuckles against the door was loud in the otherwise quiet space and Sam crouched into a fighting stance._

_He’d barely caught his breath before Nathan advanced again—a slow progress, meant to tease and intimidate. It managed the job, Sam scrambling back further, reaching down into his sock and unsheathing his knife. He flipped it open and glared at Nathan through sweaty bangs. The pain seemed to expand and burn with every inhale and grip and freeze with every exhale. Sam’s knees were weak but his mind was focused, the pain and adrenaline stimulating and sharpening his thoughts and instincts._  
  
_Nathan chuckled darkly. “I knew John would have taught you how to fight. Still, you think you’re a big boy now with that little pigsticker?”_

_Sam realized his mistake a heartbeat too late. The fastest way to be brought down by Dad during training was to wield a weapon at him. Marines were taught to disarm, just as well if not better than anything else. Nathan was waiting for Sam to make a move again and Sam hated that—preferred the defensive. Years of fending off attacks from Dean and Dad, using their height and weight to their advantage, had made the position a favorite. Refusing to give in, to play against his strengths, he took a breath and tried to wrangle in the impatience that could very well get him killed._

_“You gonna tell me what the hell you’re up to?” Sam rasped out, eyes darting over Nathan for any weakness in his defense. There was nothing, no tell that could be exploited. Nathan wasn’t even favoring his side, though Sam’s elbow should have cracked a rib._

_“You haven’t guessed yet, Pretty Boy?” Nathan tutted in mock disapproval._

_Sam hadn’t, but he was starting to. He pushed that down and away—he couldn’t panic any more than he already was. It wouldn’t do anything but get him killed. The need to get away, get to a phone, was overwhelming._

Get Dean, get Dean; Dean please.   
  
_Sam made a move, dropping down and kicking out, trying to get Nathan off balance and on Sam’s level long enough for him to do some damage with the knife. He connected with Nathan’s ankle and lower shin and Nathan stumbled back, cursing. Sam dove low, intending to slash across Nathan’s thigh, hoping to knick the artery that lay under the skin._

_Nathan jumped back, Sam’s knife slicing the material of his pants without cutting into the sensitive skin below. Sam growled in frustration, getting his feet under him and twisting around, wildly stabbing at Nathan’s torso. Batting Sam’s wrist away, the older man grabbed it hard, and wrenched. Sam cried out, pain shooting from his elbow down his forearm and making his wrist ache and fingertips tingle. He dropped the knife, physically unable to hold it with his nerveless hand. Nathan kicked it away and twisted Sam’s arm behind his back. Sam cried out, back arching in an attempt to get leverage and wrest his arm back into his control._

_Nathan’s chin was propped on Sam’s shoulder, lips scratching against Sam’s jaw and hot breath ghosting down his throat. Sam rocked hard, not caring the damage it did to his arm as long as he could get away. He kicked backward, aiming for Nathan’s balls but in his panic he missed and his foot glanced off of Nathan’s thigh._

_“Now, now, Pretty Boy. Looks like I’ve won you fair and square.” He whispered and a bout of nausea gripped Sam, fear temporarily blinding him. His back ached from the earlier blow and he held on to that pain like a life preserver, using it to fuel his actions. He stomped his foot on Nathan’s._

_“Son of a bitch!” Nathan snarled, loosening his hold long enough for Sam to get free. Sam pivoted and landed a punch to Nathan’s stomach, crying out as pain reverberated up the previously restrained arm to his shoulder. He dove for the door, an elbow coming from nowhere and connecting sharply with his sternum with an audible thud, stunning him in a perfect storm of breathlessness and pain._

Oh God, ithurtsplease, please it hurtscan’t breathe. _Sam choked on air, his chest too tight, and stumbled back, tears in his eyes. Breath suddenly came to him, a straw of air followed by a labored rush. His vision darkened as oxygenated blood surged back to his head and he coughed harshly._

_It took too long to recover, just as Sam drew in a second shaky breath Nathan pushed him. Legs weak from the blow to his kidneys, arm sore, and unable to really catch his breath or his balance, Sam went down, hitting the back of his head on one of the wooden benches on the way down. Pain burst like a gunshot through his head, the sound of the impact weird and distorted to his ears. The world tilted and spun, graying on the edges. Mechanically, Sam’s arms flailed out, clawing at the concrete floor like he clawed at his consciousness._

_“No,” he slurred, knowing that he couldn’t stay down like this. “No.” His voice sounded rough as it grated past the broken glass in his chest._

_A weight settled on top of his hips and Sam looked up through heavy lids to see Nathan’s silhouetted in the sea of static that danced frantically before his eyes. Big hands cradled both sides of his head and his hands flew up, blindly groping before he wrapped weak fingers around strong, corded wrists. “No.” He pleaded sluggishly._

_Nathan shushed him, leaning down but never coming into focus, and kissed him softly on the lips. At the contact, pieces fell into place and lightbulbs lit in his mind. Sam_ _wrenched his face away and bucked his hips, trying to throw Nathan off. Nathan moaned and Sam felt like he might throw up. He struggled wildly, rearing his hips and banging his fists against the hands on his head, but his body was still numb from the blow to his head. He was wheezing and_ oh God he couldn’t breathe.

_“Stop it, Pretty Boy. It’s time to play with my prize.” Nathan cooed gently. He lifted Sam’s head and Sam’s eyes widened in sick realization._

_“No!” He cried hysterically, pulling on Nathan’s wrist. “Don’t, please!” Nathan’s arms tensed around him and he knew what was coming. “No! Dean!” Sam yelled before Nathan once again slammed his head into the wooden bench. A painful grunt was torn from Sam’s throat and everything—his vision, his hearing—faded except for the throbbing pain._

_He came to knowing that he’d been out for a little while. His skin ached, pain lanced down his back and his head hurt so bad it felt like hooks were lodged in his brain with someone pulling the lines in all directions. For a while, it was all he was aware of —pain, aching, tingling – his world reduced to his body and the way it cried out. Sound returned first, shuffling and murmuring . He couldn’t see, couldn’t open his eyes. He tried to move his hands to his eyes, but his arms didn’t obey—were unable to._

_“Don’t pull too hard, Pretty Boy.” Nathan’s voice pierced through the veil obscuring his mind and Sam opened his eyes. Nathan’s silhouette, hazy and clouded, loomed over him, the picture slipping into doubles. Sam’s vision was suddenly too sharp, the light too bright, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut. “Don’t want to bruise your wrists.” Nathan continued and his voices made Sam’s head shudder and whirl like a ball in a pinball machine._

_“W-What?” Sam slurred, tugging his hands and dimly realized they were tied above his head to the leg of one of the benches. He was on his back, the tangy copper scent of blood in his nose immediately making Sam’s stomach queasy. The cement was cold beneath him and he was frozen, his whole body shuddering, and he was struck with the knowledge he didn’t have a shirt. He was fairly certain his pants were still on, but he couldn’t be sure with the buzzing in his head that wouldn’t stop._

_A rough, big hand pressed hard into Sam’s belly, thick fingers slipping beneath his waistband. “Just managed to get you ready.” Nathan rumbled. “You recover fast.”_

_The words didn’t actually make much coherent sense, but Sam could detect the ill-intent, the cruelty beneath them. “No, stop.” He whimpered, trying to gather the far-flung pieces of his consciousness._

_“I’m not gonna stop now, Pretty Boy.” Nathan’s voice was so loud that Sam jumped. “Had my eye on you from the first. God, don’t you know how perfect you are? You are such a sweet thing, devoted to your family. But not meek, are you? God, the defiance in your eyes, your arrogance. You’re such a perfect challenge, Pretty Boy. And you’re pretty—it’s what I first noticed. Your eyes—so expressive. God, I’m going to love watching you break through them. “_

_Sam wriggled and groaned at the pain the movement caused but he continued to struggle._

_“And your fucking mouth, pretty and wide.” Nathan emphasized this point by leaning down and taking Sam in a bruising kiss. At first, all Sam could think was he couldn’t breathe, and then when his muddled mind caught up he tried to bite down on the tongue in his mouth but Nathan was too quick. Strong fingers dug into Sam’s jaw, forcing his mouth open painfully. Sam cried out before Nathan’s tongue, wet and thick and blocking Sam’s already labored ability to breath, fucked in and out of his mouth. Sam choked, tried to wrench his head away, tried to bite down, tried to push Nathan’s tongue away with his own but it only elicited a moan from Nathan. His futile attempts only spurred Nathan on._

_Finally, when Sam’s vision was graying out again, Nathan leaned back and Sam gasped, panting hard. “And your neck. Just begging to be owned.” Nathan bit him hard, the pain, sharper than the constant thrum that ran up and down his body, blossomed, causing him to scream out. A sick revelation chilled his body to the bone, all he could do was scream._

_“Please! Please help!” Sam screamed, fingertips clawing air, feet shuffling on the ground trying to find purchase to throw Nathan off. “Please!”_

_Nathan hit him, heavy and open-handed, and Sam sobbed at the ringing pain and subsequent nausea. “No more, stop, get the fuck off me you bastard, please, please!” Sam ranted, alternating angry threats with frantic pleas, not even sure what he was saying most of the time._

_“Such a fucking filthy mouth!” Nathan crowed, tracing his fingers down Sam’s stomach, his hips, and thighs. Sam couldn’t remember when he’d lost his pants, must have been early on when he was still so muddled. “It’s okay, I’ll teach you, Pretty Boy.”_

_Nathan’s voice echoed in his head and Sam screwed his face in concentration, trying to understand. “S-Stay the fuck away.” Sam murmured, his eyes rolling. “Y-You’ll never get away. D-Dad and Dean—they’ll kill you—“_

_Nathan laughed, wrapping his hand around Sam’s cock, and squeezing it in a painful, bruising grip._

_Sam screamed, the sound ripped from his lungs. It hurt. No one else had touched him there and it wasn’t right. He finally, finally completely understood what was going to_ _happen._

_“Stop! Stop! I’ll scream! I’ll tell! Dad and Dean—they’ll kill you! Let go, please, let go!” Sam babbled as he writhed, shaking his head back and forth in denial._

_“If they believe you.” Nathan taunted, “You haven’t been exactly trustworthy lately. Of course, some of that was courtesy of me, but you made it so easy.” He ran his nose up the side of Sam’s neck, inhaling the scent of the young boy and reveling in the feel of his skin. “Your skin, Sam. So smooth, so young. Only a few scars to mar it. I’m gonna mark you, Pretty Boy. Gonna make you dirty.” He squeezed harder on Sam’s cock and Sam cried again hoarsely._

_“Listen to you, moaning like a whore already. You’re a little slut, aren’t you, Pretty? Bet you’ve whored around—that girl you keep trying to kiss in the hall. You fucked her yet, whore? How about that boy you attach yourself to in class? He fucked you?”_

_“Go to hell!” Sam gasped through panted breaths, pulling on his bindings, weakly bucking._

_Nathan snarled and gripped Sam’s hair, yanking hard and twisting. “Answer the question, Pretty. You a whore? You fucked or been fucked? Truthfully, now.”_

_“Y-Yes.” Sam groused, not sure why he said it. Nathan was coming in clearer now and the man looked furious—completely foreign on a face that had been all smiles and laughter since Sam met him—pulling Sam’s hair until he heard a tear._

_Nathan laughed. “You’re a filthy liar, Pretty.” Nathan leaned down, licked Sam’s throat and bit him harshly._

_“Fucker!” Sam choked._

_“Gonna make you mind your manners, Pretty Boy.” Nathan said. Nathan was a little bruised and flushed, but he was still dressed in only his slacks, hair rapidly drying. Sam heard the schick of his pocket switchblade opening and tears flew to his eyes._

_“Oh, God, stop, just stop!” Sam sobbed as Nathan traced the point of the knife around Sam’s eyes. Reflexively, Sam closed them and froze, feeling the pinprick sharp scrape against the delicate skin of his eyelids. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe as the knife slipped along the bridge of his nose and then down to outline his lips. Nathan pressed harder there, leaving behind a burn. “Open your whore mouth, Pretty. You haven’t fucked around but you’re my whore.” Sam kept his lips sealed and Nathan pressed the blade into the healing scab from the split lip from Mac’s bullies the other day. Copper flooded his mouth and made a noxious mixture with the bile in his throat. Sam_ _opened his mouth and remained still, peeking between thick lashes to watch as Nathan put the blade in his mouth. The metal clinked against his teeth before the cold blade ran across Sam’s tongue._

_“You better put your mouth to some fucking use, whore, better speak nice to me or I’ll cut out your tongue. We clear?”_

_Sam dared to nod minutely and Nathan’s smile was charming and rakish, making Sam want to scream again._

_“I want to use your mouth, Pretty. Want to fuck it. But you’ve got me so riled up—you’re such a fucking cock tease that I can’t hold on much longer. I want your pretty virgin ass.”_

_Sam’s eyes widened and Nathan removed the knife. “No, no, no, no. Y-You won’t get away. Oh God, oh God.” Sam rambled as the knife circle his penis. This couldn’t be happening. He was supposed to be talking to Dean._ Oh God, Dean _. His brother would be so furious, would think Sam was out doing—whatever Nathan had convinced Dean he was doing. Dean would go and look but he wouldn’t think to look here at the school._

_Keeping the knife pressed against the thick vein of Sam’s cock ensuring his compliance, Nathan maneuvered Sam’s legs, bending them up and separating them. Sam panted hard, but controlled, afraid if he breathed too deep the knife would slip._

_Panic settled in so fast that he couldn’t think. When his legs were positioned Nathan trailed the knife down to Sam’s hole, circling it with the tip. Sam frantically shook his head, fear stealing his voice. He felt the drag, the burn, the knife left behind, stinging like a paper cut. His whole body trembled uncontrollably._

_Nathan shushed Sam almost gently. “I’m only going to prepare you, pretty whore. I’m going to cut you open for me.”_

_Sheer terror gripped Sam and the tears that fell sporadically with pain now flowed freely in hysterical, barely stifled sobs._

_Nathan tsked. “Don’t like that idea, Pretty Boy?” Nathan removed the knife from Sam’s body and the schick of it closing made Sam gasp in relief. Suddenly something blunt and hard was pushed against his entrance before it was unceremoniously shoved past the resistance._

_The pain was instantaneous, blinding, all-encompassing and paralyzing. It was the handle of Sam’s knife and even though it didn’t penetrate far, it was wide. It burned, flames of pain lanced up Sam’s stomach and spine and his lower body felt crippled with weakness. He screamed and hollered, shuffling on the ground, trying to get out of reach._

_“Dad! Dean!” Sam wailed, because he didn’t know who else to call, hoped that his pleas would bring them, their names oddly comforting to him._

_“They’re not here, my pretty whore. No one’s here but me.” Nathan shoved the handle in faster and harder and Sam tears blurred everything as he tried to twist away, tried to command his legs to kick out._

_Nathan’s hand wrapped around Sam’s penis again. He pulled and twisted, sending Sam arching off the floor. “Scream so pretty for me.”_

_“STOP!” Sam shrieked. The world faded out, his mind shutting down. His whole body hurt, head throbbing and back aching while his lower regions felt on fire. “Dean—De! Dad!_ Daddy _!”_

_Nathan growled and tugged the knife from Sam’s abused body and tossed it away. He reached behind him and held something up. Sam could barely see straight, but was able to make out a large, bright blue ball dangling from a leather strap pinched between Nathan’s two fingers._

_Sam whimpered, rocking his body, sluggishly still trying to get away even though he knew he couldn’t._

_“Open your mouth for me, Pretty.” Nathan purred, dark eyes glittering, and Sam shook his head, pressing his torn lips together in a thin line. Nathan chuckled and leaned down, covering Sam’s mouth with his. When Sam tried to pull away, Nathan leaned back and punched him. Sam’s eyes rolled as consciousness threatened to slip away. Nathan put more weight on Sam’s hips and reached up to wrap a hand around Sam’s throat, cutting off his air. A plaintive, breathy whine escaped Sam as he struggled for air. His feet scrambled, knees seeking Nathan intending to inflict pain._

_“I’m gonna teach you to obey me yet.” Nathan whispered into Sam’s ear. “Now open your fucking mouth when I say so. You understand, Pretty?” Sam couldn’t nod with Nathan’s fingers locked around his throat. The pressure was released and Sam greedily gulped in air, his vision swimming, and then his airway was partially blocked again by the big plastic blue ball in his mouth. It forced his jaw wide, straining the joint painfully, and a new wave of tears fell. He couldn’t breathe right and he gagged._

_“All pretty for me, tied up and gagged. You were made to be tied up, whore. Your mouth made to be stuffed full, your body made to be used by me.”_

_Sam shook his head, taking desperate, whistling breaths through his nose._

_“Yes, pretty whore.” Nathan kissed him over the ball gag, licking his lips. “You’re all open for me now, fucked you open with your own knife—remember I was kind to you, I could have cut you open, could have lubed you with your own blood.”_

_Sam’s breath hitched and his minor struggles finally stopped because (_ please, Dean, what’s he talking about? What’s he gonna do to me, Dad? _) strong arms and broad hands wound around Sam’s waist. Sam struggled when Nathan raised off of him, but his efforts were weak, body dizzy with pain and a haze of panic. Nathan flipped him onto his stomach, his bruised chest smacking hard against the concrete and the bindings on his wrists twisting and biting into the tender skin. An anguished shout tore from him as vertigo made him fight and gag against the ball in his mouth. Nathan’s hand snaked to Sam’s belly and lifted him up, balancing Sam’s weight on his weak knees. He circled his hands around the leg of the bench to prevent him pitching forward and hitting his head._

_Sam was still trying to regain his equilibrium when white-hot pain exploded through his entire body. It stole what little breath he was able to get through the gag and made his body tighten and cramp. His insides felt shredded apart._

Nathan’s dick is in me! _Sam realized with a gag. O_ h, God, please, it hurts! I’ll do anything, make it stop! 

_His knees gave out and he hit the floor, the change in position not deterring Nathan who grabbed onto the bench above Sam’s head for leverage, pounding into Sam harder, tearing into him, making him bleed. The pain was too much and grey and black spots formed before his eyes as Nathan’s motions forced his whole body jerk and move._

_Sam’s blanked out, he might even have lost consciousness from so many blows to the head. “De, De, De, De.” He panted around the piece of rubber in his mouth._

_“You’re so tight, Pretty Boy, so tight and hot and just for me.” Nathan crooned, his voice spilling around Sam’s mind, making him shiver._

_Just when Sam thought he might pass out, escape all of this, Nathan lifted up his hips and repositioned him on his knees. He slowed his pace, changed the angle, and on the next thrust in Nathan’s thick dick scraped over something inside of Sam that had his stomach clenching in sick pleasure._

_Sam cried, shaking his head furiously. “NO! NO!” He mumbled around the gag._

_“You’re going to enjoy this, naughty whore. You’re going to come all over yourself like the pretty filth you are.” Nathan threatened and prodded Sam’s prostate. Sam shuddered, a tortured moan escaping his throat. He heard Nathan spit on his hand and then thick fingers wrapped around Sam’s sensitive and bruised cock. He was horrified to feel the traitorous organ start to fill from the stimulation of Nathan’s dick on the nerves inside him and his ministrations on the outside._

_“You want this so bad, Pretty Boy, want me so bad you’re going to come all over yourself like an animal.” Nathan hit Sam’s prostate every time until Sam was undeniably hard._

_With a final strip and twist of Nathan’s wrist and punch to his prostate, Sam came, sobbing in disgust through his release. He wanted to die._

_Nathan groaned, excited by the sight of the orgasm that was forcefully wrenched from Sam, from the ropes of cum that coated his hand and Sam’s stomach and chest. Sam collapsed, eyes rolling back, the world finally dying, but he didn’t lose consciousness before Nathan tensed in him and moaned through his own orgasm. Sam rapidly lost his grip on reality, but absently noted that he didn’t feel the evidence of Nathan’s release._

A condom. Thank God for small favors _._

_Deliriously, Sam thought of the condoms Dean stuffed in his backpack on the first day of school in Pike Creek. Then, mercifully, he passed out._

*****  
Dean watched in horror as Sam laid disturbingly still on the ground, obviously unconscious from the pain and abuse. Schneider rocked back on his heels, grabbing Sam’s tattered shirt to wipe his groin clean before throwing it down on Sam. Dean’s lip curled in disgust as thick fingers threaded through Sam’s hair, a perverse tenderness after the brutality of the previous moments. The older man released the binds around thin wrists, pressed a possessive kiss to smooth, marred skin and left. 

Dean sat and listened to the whirr of the VCR, eyes glued to the unmoving man on the dirty locker room floor, sitting a retrospect vigil. Minutes ticked by before the black and white boy stirred, raising up on unsteady arms that buckled under his weight. Propping up on his elbow, Sam’s back rose and fell with deep gasping breaths, working to master the pain through concentrated breathing. Body moving stiffly, he crawled closer to the bench and used its secure presence to lever up from the floor, falling twice with pained groans before succeeding. 

Light reflected off of dull eyes, devoid of life and hope, as Sam fumbled with the buttons of his overshirt, the t-shirt a lost cause to the knife’s blade and Schneider’s clean-up. Sam’s face contorted into a mask of agony as he seated his jeans on his hips and Dean winced at the cry of pain when the button and fly were done. Sam stuffed his feet into his tattered shoes, the backs bent under his heel and flapping up with each step, and gingerly shuffled out of view. 

The static startled Dean after the deathly quiet of Sam redressing. He jabbed a numb finger at the STOP button, stabbing harshly enough at the small square to slide the machine back several inches instead of giving into his other two thoughts – the first, to shoot the damn device like it was its fault for what he’d seen and the second, to run to the bathroom and vomit.

The VCR automatically began to rewind the tape to the beginning and Dean’s mind spun in time with the rotating heads. 

_“I’ll tell! Dad and Dean—they’ll kill you!”_

_“If they believe you.”_

_“You haven’t been exactly trustworthy lately. Of course, some of that was courtesy of me, but you made it so easy.”_

_“Dean—De! Dad!_ Daddy _!”_

_“They’re not here, my pretty whore. No one’s here but me.”_

_“Please! Please help!”_

_“Dad! Dean!”_

  
Even after the fights and hurt feelings, Sam had called for them, begged for them. Begged for them to help him, save him, from the man both older Winchesters had chosen to believe over their own flesh and blood. They’d turned a blind eye and ear to Sam’s worries about Schneider. What had happened was as much their fault as it was Schneider’s. They were supposed to keep Sam safe, protect him. Dean was supposed to protect him and he’d failed epically. 

“ _Dean—De! Dad!_ Daddy _!”_

Dean lurched up and dashed down the hallway toward the bathroom.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ*

Sam’s body hurt and the room smelled strongly of his sick still lying on the floor next to the cot. The pain ebbed and crescendoed with each movement, spiking from mind-numbing pain to conscious-erasing agony. He was actually grateful for the periods of blackness, the respite from the constant hurt allowing him to refortify his resolve, knowing that his reserves were limited.

The bleak autumn day grew darker, the shadows thrown by the letters on the door lengthening across the floor as afternoon faded to evening. Sam counted his breaths, focusing on making them even and slow in the concentrated technique his father had taught him to deal with pain. He heard the sound of an engine rumbling to life, the exhaust rattling the loose tailpipe against the frame and the crunch of gravel as the vehicle sped away. Sam continued to count… _1, please God, 2, not again, 3, Dean help, 4, love you_

The knob jiggled and the hinges creaked, the aluminum door swinging open to reveal the gray outline of a man. Unconsciously, Sam’s breath hitched, fear spiking adrenaline through his veins.

“All alone,” the voice sing-songed, stepping into the room and shutting the door.

“Dan,” Sam groaned, the hormone release dulling some of the pain.

“You know, your ghost has been impossible to live with, impossible to live up to. You haunt me,” Dan moved closer to the cot, eyes glittering in the dim light, “a memory, all shiny and plastic, that he measures our love by, an apparition whispering that I don’t meet the grade.” Rubber soled shoes squeaked across the concrete floor just out of Sam’s line of sight, making him nervous and uncertain. “But it was okay, because you weren’t here and I was. I was the one in his bed, under him, submitting to him, giving him pleasure. I thought I lost him with that Blackman kid, but turned out that little Petey fell shorter of your perfection than I did.” Dan moved where Sam could see, the moonlight highlighting the manic, feral gleam to his eyes. “Then you came back, and all he talks about is his Pretty Boy.”

Sam tried to rise up on his elbow, lever himself from the bed into a more defendable position, but the pain spiked and he cried out. “Dan, please,” he panted, “Let me go.”

“I always wondered what it was about you that fascinated him so much,” there was the unmistakable jangle of a belt buckle and out of the corner of his eye Sam could see the matte black leather and shiny silver hanging loosely from unbuttoned tan pants. Dan stepped forward, one hand fisting in Sam’s hair while the other guided the golden zipper down, “Guess, it’s time I found out.”

  
*****

  
Dean staggered back down the hallway, one hand braced against the wall for support and the back of the other wiping away the acidic spittle from his lips. He stumbled into the living room wall, leaning on it heavily, and stared at the royal blue screen on the TV, small white VCR in the upper left corner. Shuffling forward, he dropped to his knees and ejected the tape, cradling it between his hands and staring at the neat script on the aging sticker – Pretty Boy 10/00.

Pretty Boy. So close to Dean’s beloved pet name of Baby Boy. How could Sam stand to hear Dean call him something so reminiscent of that hated name?

His fingers tightened around the case, the black plastic creaking ominously under the pressure. He shuddered under the rampant emotions coursing through him, wreaking havoc on his mind, heart and nerves. A steady, calming breath forced its way past pursed lips. He couldn’t do this now, couldn’t let his guilt pull him under. Sam was still missing and was in the hands of the man that – Dean grit his teeth, fingers aching when he increased his grip – sitting here wasn’t going to help his brother. Dean had already let Sam down once; he wouldn’t do it again. 

Refusing to relinquish his hold on the evidence of his brother’s torment and his failure, he stood, going to the kitchen. He searched the cabinets and pantry, finally finding a brown paper bag and returned to the pile of Schneider’s trophies. Sam’s video and shorts were tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket, his shame close to his heart where its hard presence served as a reminder and couldn’t be escaped. Tugging a red paisley bandana from his back pocket, he carefully wiped down the other videos, wrapped them in the corresponding gym clothes and placed them in the bag. Lady Justice wouldn’t blindly weigh Schneider’s offense in a courtroom – Dean would make sure of that – but Tracy Blackman deserved answers for why her sons were dead and Peter Blackman deserved justice.

Getting ready to leave, Dean swiped the bandana over the VCR, the panel he’d pried loose in Schneider’s bedroom and any other surface he may have touched. It would be too suspicious for the Sheriff’s fingerprints to be all over the house of a pedophilic rapist right as damning evidence anonymously showed up at the police station. Surveying the living room one last time to satisfy the OCD ingrained in him to cover his tracks, Dean’s eyes lit on a long black sheath, a black rubber handle protruding from the end, laying innocuously on the end table. He moved closer, drawn to it, mesmerized by the familiarity. Without seeing the blade, he knew this knife – knew the feel of the handle against his palm, the smoothness of the carbon steel, the sharpness of the edge when it was finely honed. An Ontario SP1 Marine combat knife, standard issue. Dad’s grip was brittle along the ends from years of continued use, the weapon a favorite of the Winchester patriarch, but this one was pristine, retired from active duty at the same time as its owner. 

_I’ve seen these kinds of wounds before and so have you. It was how the military taught us to do close proximity hand-to-hand._

Dean lifted the knife from the table and slid it free of its leather holder. The smell of oil wafted up to his nose, the scent he associated with clean weapons and a finished hunt, and he narrowed his gaze at the gleaming powder coated blade.

_The sheriff was killed by someone with formal training… either ex-law enforcement or ex-military._

He brought the hilt to his face, inhaling the oily smell of tires and buried just beneath that a sharp coppery tang he knew too well. It was one of the main drawbacks of Kraton handles, the rubber was absorbent and no treatment Dean had found could keep liquid – water, alcohol, blood – from being drawn into the grip. Dad’s knife maintained a permanent odor of death, the mixed blood of too many creatures who’d met their end at the thrust of the blade, so much so that he could identify that knife in a bag of weapons by smell alone. Nothing Dean had tried in his numerous cleanings of the knife had ever been able to dissipate the scent. Now, it seemed, that Schneider’s knife was starting its own olfactory legacy.

The knife made a soft shunk when it slid back into its custom made sheath and Dean quickly snugged it under the waistband of his jeans. Curling the top of the paper bag over, he picked it up from the floor and turned toward the door, startling at the sudden presence behind him.

“Cas,” he growled as much out of habit as irritation.

“I have found Sam.”

  
*****

  
Sam yelped as his jeans were shoved down his thighs, the constriction from his waistband adding to the nauseating pressure and pain of his injured left leg. He’d given up on stifling his cries, the muffling only incensing Dan and making him crueler in an attempt to wring the sound from Sam. The pain in his body was as effective as any restraint, causing his thoughts to scatter until his mind could only concentrate on the white heat of it consuming him – ideas of escape, notions of self-defense, blinded by its intensity. Each time the white dulled, graying undertones pressing in at the perimeter and promising a welcomed respite, Dan ratcheted the pain to a new level of agony that kept everything stark and bright and unconsciousness elusive.

“On your knees.”

A slap to his damaged thigh and Sam’s stomach seized, a dry heave wracking his body. His hair was pulled back, the weight of his head straining the roots to the point of breaking. 

“You puke and I’ll make you lick it up,” Dan hissed in his ear. “Now, on your knees or I’ll make that last slap feel like a love tap.”

Sam’s brain felt disconnected from his body, the signals it desperately sent down neural pathways, requests for movement, not reaching their destination. He’d worry that the truck had caused spinal damage, but the pain he felt attested that his nerves were intact. Bruising grips and clawing fingers pulled his hips from the bed while strong thighs maneuvered his legs into position. Retching when the pain achieved a new summit, he jerked at the feel of blunt pressure.

_No, no, no, no._

“No!” He was balanced on his shoulders, hands limp and useless on the cot next to his shoulders. Screaming in pain and fear, he threaded his right hand between his spread legs, crying out at the pull on his left ribs. He grabbed the dangling sack of flesh, full and heavy, between his assaulter’s legs, yanking down and twisting his wrist to the left.

“Motherfucker!”

The insistent press against his entrance disappeared as the man behind him jolted back from the attack, Sam’s grip on the hanging manhood slipping. The intense hold on his left hip released as the hand went to cup the abused organs. Sam wiggled and tried to buck off the other hand, but his attempts only made Dan clamp down harder, the officer’s panted breaths loud in Sam’s ear.

“You’re gonna pay for that!” Dan seethed.

Sam heard the whoosh of air a second before the blow landed, hard and commanding, against the ribs of his left side. Pain stole his breath, his thoughts, his will. The second hit struck with uncanny accuracy on the spot of the first, the crack felt and heard. Sam screamed, the end strangled by the third blow. Warm pennies flooded his mouth and trickled over his lips with each exhale, dribbling down his cheek to soak into the blanket beneath him. He felt the rustle of a breeze across his bare flesh as the darkness that had been so evasive engulfed him.

  
*****

  
Dean latched onto Castiel’s arm to steady himself, still not used to the disorientation that accompanied angelic transportation. He blinked at the dim lighting, eyes focusing on the shadowed figures across the room. Under harsh, panted breaths, Dean heard a pained whimper, one that he’d soothed for so long just the sound spurred a guttural protectiveness so instinctual it was like breathing. 

Recognizing their presence, a figure too slight to be Sam reared up from what Dean could now see was a camp cot, another vague, but achingly familiar, outline was bent over before it. The position was unmistakable and, without conscious thought, Dean raised his hands, fingers curled around the reassuring cool ivory of his Taurus, index finger curling in and squeezing the curve of metal in trained memory. The reverberation split the air, the recoil a comforting vibration along his muscles, and a spark flared from the muzzle. The upright shadow flailed back, the force of impact propelling him off the cot and onto the floor. The hunched figure fell forward, a marionette with its strings cut.

“Sammy!” Dean ran toward the cot, mindless of the writhing, keening man on the floor. He skidded the last few feet, coming to a halt near Sam’s head, setting his gun on the floor under Sam’s makeshift bed. Cradling Sam’s head between his palms, he trailed a thumb through the bright red trail across Sam’s cheek, smearing it over the skin. In the muted light he could make out the dried blood crusted in Sam’s hair above his brother’s temple, the black-blue bruising along his front and left side, the swollen, discolored deformity of his left thigh. “Sammy? Come on, baby, look at me.” He smoothed a hand over his brother’s body, searching for more injuries, those not evident to the naked eye.

Distantly he could feel Castiel beside him and hear the man on the ground’s pained sobs. His heart stuttered when he laid his hand across Sam’s chest. The right side pistoned crazily, short and erratic, but the left didn’t move at all.

“Sam?” Dean’s calls were laced in panic now, gaze trained on the cyanotic hue of Sam’s lips. “Sammy? No, no, no. Come on, little brother,” he took a shaky breath, “don’t do this to me. Not now. You’re not allowed to die.”

The head in his hand moved sluggishly, face turning toward his voice. Slitted hazel eyes looked up, tears gathering at the outer corners, a film of pain clearing enough for recognition to shine through.

“D’n?” It’s barely a whisper between shallow gasps.

“There you are, Sammy. It’s gonna be okay. Hang on.” Dean’s eyes flew down to the asymmetrically moving chest. The abdominal muscles just below were convulsing, jerking Sam’s body with each contraction. “Cas! Get over here!”

Fingers, kitten-weak, pawed at Dean’s shirt and he turned his attention back to his little brother’s face. Sam’s mouth open and closed silently, a red bubble forming and popping with the movements. Tears flowed continuously into sweat-lank hair as red painted lips curled into the barest trace of a smile. “S’vd m-me.” Sam’s energy was visibly waning, body stilling as it ebbed and eyes sliding closed.

“Of course I saved you,” Dean petted a hand down Sam’s face, shaking it gently until dull blue-green gazed up at him again through hooded lids. Feeling Castiel hovering over him, he sniffled. “Do something, Cas! He’s – he’s…”

Blinking heavily, Sam locked eyes with his brother and mouthed, “Love…you.” Soothing, pain-free darkness descended on him.

“Cas!”

“You have to move, Dean,” Castiel pulled gently on the sobbing man’s shoulder. “I can heal him, but I am forbidden from resurrecting him again.”

Reluctantly, Dean released Sam and stepped back, allowing the angel to get at his dying brother. His feet connected with something and he stumbled, a whimper rising up from the floor. Dean stared down in disbelief at Dan lying on the floor, hands clutched over a growing red stain across his abdomen. His head snapped back to the cot as Sam gasped, Castiel’s index and middle finger pressed to his forehead, his back bowing up in an arch so that his head and heels were the only parts touching the wool blanket.

Hazel eyes flew open, but a second divine touch had them closing again.

“Cas?” Dean stared at the angel, eyes pleading.

“He’s sleeping,” Castiel pulled his gaze from Sam to reassure his brother.

Dean took a half-step forward, stopping at the grunt of pain from the bleeding man, having forgotten about the fallen tormentor in his worry. His fingers curled into a fist, his left eye narrowing and the muscles in his jaw jumping from the tension. “Get Sam out of here.”

Castiel’s eyes tracked over Dean’s face trying to reconcile the calm tone with the tightly wound, steely expression. “I think it would be best if you accompany us,” Castiel spoke carefully, eyes flicking between the stoic hunter and the wounded man.

“Get Sam somewhere safe then come back for me. I need a few minutes with Deputy Smith here,” Dean leaned over and smoothed a hand over Sam’s head, the hair still blood matted but the multi-hued bruising gone, his other hand retrieving his gun from the floor.

“Dean…”

“Cas, go!”

Dean turned to face Dan, small hairs on the back of his neck ruffling at the flutter of wings, and crouched down beside him. Fisting a handful of sandy hair, he forced the officer to look him in the face. “Where is Schneider?” He forced the words through gritted teeth, enunciating each one clearly. Weak moonlight glinted off the barrel of his gun and reflected in Dan’s eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ*

Dan groaned and tried to wriggle from Dean’s hold. “Fuck off!”

“Look, the only reason I haven’t put a bullet in your brain,” he nudged Dan’s temple with the muzzle of his gun, “is Sam, the saint that he is, wouldn’t want me to. So instead I’m gonna give you two options, you either tell me where Schneider would hole up and I’ll call 911,” he motioned with the gun to the left, a cold considering tilt to his mouth, “or you keep mouthing off and when my friend gets back, I’ll leave your ass here to rot.” He angled the gun to the right and shrugged. “Your choice.”

Dan grunted, his tan work shirt nearly soaked through, and glared up at his boss. He startled as the man in the trenchcoat appeared in a rush of wind.

“Time’s up, Danny boy. What’s it going to be?” Dean stood, seating his gun in the back of his pants next to the knife he’d taken from Schneider’s house. When Dan didn’t answer, Dean moved closer to Castiel. “Let’s go.”

Castiel glanced at the man on the floor. “Dean, this man’s wounds are potentially fatal.”

“I gave him the chance to save himself, but…” Dean shrugged again, “His choice. Now, take me to Sammy.”

“Wait!” Dan yelped when he jerked his injuries, igniting the pain in his body. “You can’t just leave me here to die. I thought you said that Sam wouldn’t want you to kill me.”

“See, I actually can,” Dean peered over his shoulder, a humorless chuckle coating his words. “I said that Sam was a saint, not that I was, and Sammy learned long ago that you can’t save everyone. Especially stupid motherfuckers that won’t save themselves.” He nodded at the angel, waving his hand impatiently. “Sam. Now.”

“The cabin,” Dan called as the black haired man raised a hand to Dean’s face, “My folks own a cabin up by Piedmont Lake. We used to meet there when I was in high school. If he was in trouble, Nate would go there.” 

Dean walked over and crouched next to his fallen deputy. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He dug into Dan’s front pocket and pulled his cell phone out. Dialing the phone, he gestured to the paper bag he’d dropped when he and Castiel first arrived at the warehouse. “Cas! Bring that over here where it’s sure to be seen.” When the ringing line was answered, Dean cleared his throat. “I’d like to report a shooting…Yeah, the old warehouse on Sycamore… My name? Sure, my name is…” He ended the call.

Tossing the phone on Dan’s chest, he stood. “Ambulance should be here soon. If you survive the blood loss and the sepsis, you should spend a long and healthy life in state prison.”

“I’ll take you to your brother,” The dark haired man came up beside Dean and with a touch, the two disappeared, leaving Dan alone with his thoughts swirling around a dwindling consciousness.

  
*****

  
“Dean? What the hell is going on? That angel of yours shows up here with your brother, looking like he’s been to hell and back, and won’t tell us anything!” Dad’s angry voice assaulted his ears the moment that Dean became aware. Blinking, the interior of the Roadhouse came into focus and Dean took a breath. 

“Where’s Sam?” Dean demanded, ignoring the questions being peppered at him.

“In Jo’s room,” Ellen walked through the doorway that led to the private rooms in the back, wiping her hands on a towel.

Nodding, Dean began quickly making his way toward the young woman’s room.

“Dean!” John’s voice stopped him, his back snapping straight out of years of conditioning. “What happened to your brother?”

Jaw clenched against the words that were threatening to spew out, the guilt and remorse that were trying to pull him under and drown him, Dean turned to his father. “You want to know what happened to Sam?” At John’s nod, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled the VCR tape free. Tossing the damning piece of plastic at his father, Dean seethed, “We’re what happened to him. We were too focused on finding the thing that killed Mom that we weren't watching the part of her we had left. We treated him like a child, claiming we were trying to keep him safe, when we were the ones that put him in the most danger.” He choked slightly and took a moment to regain some semblance of composure, “Sammy's Hell was paved with our good intentions, Dad. This is on us, nobody else." 

“What are you talking about?” Confusion was written in every inch of John’s face as he stared at the tape in his lap. “Are you saying that we hurt Sam?”

"No, we just trusted that bastard that did. You and I both know that things were never right between the three of us after that job in Pike Creek, but now I know why – and you should too. Consider it the beginning of your penance and pray that Sammy forgives us, because I never will." He spun on his heel and made his way down the private hallway to the last door on the left, Castiel shadowing his footsteps.

Hand on the knob, Dean lowered his head. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

“I assure you, he is physically well and resting. I can not speak as to his mental health, though.” Castiel’s words were quiet and cautious.

Nodding, Dean pushed the door open to reveal a room completely decorated in pink and purple – the effeminate color palette such a contradiction to the personality of its owner that Dean was momentarily distracted from the figure on the bed, stunned. His eyes landed on his brother, nestled in soft pink sheets with a lavender comforter pulled around his shoulders, somehow seeming younger and smaller surrounded by the sea of pastels. Three strides had him hovering at Sam’s bedside, taking in the familiar features slackened in sleep.

Sam was on his back, face toward the wall, his hair damp and free of dried blood, a bucket with a rung out pink tinged washcloth draped over the side attesting to his recent clean-up. Trembling fingers wrapped over the edge of the thick blanket, carefully peeling it back from the supine body. Dean needed to know, to see, to be certain that Sam was alive and well under the mound of linens. Beneath the blankets, Sam’s chest and torso were bare, well-worn sweatpants riding low on his hips – the pair of faded blue cotton with the Marine Corp emblem screen printed on the leg was their dad’s and Dean suppressed the urge to rip them off. He ran his hands over the body he knew by heart, sighing at the rhythmic rise and fall of Sam’s chest and easy in and out of his breathing. Fingertips traced the sites of his injuries, failing to find any lingering reminders.

“Thank,” Dean cleared his voice of the emotion clogging it, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Castiel peered at Sam over Dean’s shoulder, “I can wake him whenever you are ready. I was reluctant for him to rouse before you were here.”

Dean shook his head, “Let him sleep.” Toeing off his boots, he placed his gun and knife on the nightstand in easy reach then gently stretched out next to his slumbering brother, arm draped carefully over him. Sam exhaled a contented sigh and moved into the heat and comfort. Not sure what tomorrow would bring for their relationship, Dean was willing to greedily take what he could, while he could.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ*

Sam squinted against a harsh ray of light insistently prodding at his eyelids. He could feel Dean’s heat beside him and arms around him and wanted nothing more than to revel in their warm, peaceful cocoon a little while longer. His mind drifted on hazy, pre-wakening thoughts and he happily rode the current until memories started filtering in. The SUV, the warehouse, Schneider, Dan…Dean!

He sat up with a gasp, body shuddering.

“It’s okay, Sammy, it’s okay,” A soothing hand petted down his back while the other acted as a grounding presence around his bicep. “We’re at the Roadhouse. You’re safe.”

Sam faced his brother and his breath stuttered to a halt in his chest. Sam had spent years studying his brother, learning from him, trying to be like him. He knew his expressions, his moods, his mind and his heart. Looking into those fathomless green eyes, he could clearly read the torture of the soul behind them. Realization hit fast and hard, a lightning strike that burned a path of shame and fear from Sam’s head to his toes. He recoiled back from the comforting touches. Dean knew! Dean knew everything!

“Oh God.” The words left him in a forced exhale as bile seared his throat. He jumped from the bed, legs tangling in the twisted sheets, and fell to his knees on the floor, retching. _Dean knew! Dean knew!_ All those years of hiding – and Dean knew! 

A garbage can appeared in front of him and he grabbed it as yellow acid filled his mouth. He jerked away from the hand rubbing circles along his back, mind shutting out the cooing words next to his ear as what little his stomach could muster was expelled. Spitting the taste from his mouth, he groaned and pushed away the arms that tried to surround him. “Go away! Leave me alone.” _Dean knew now_. He’d want to leave and Sam couldn’t allow himself the comfort to only have it taken away.

“Sorry,” Dean said softly, “no can do, little brother. You’re stuck with me.” He wrapped Sam up and cradled him to his chest, ignoring the attempts, weak from sickness and exhaustion, to force him away.

Dean’s scent enveloped him and his traitorous hands came up to fist into the soft material of Dean’s shirt. Tears fell without volition, starting off as trickles that quickly grew to streams as Sam was rocked slowly in his brother’s embrace. Fight draining from him, Sam collapsed into Dean’s lap.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.” Dean’s heart shattered at his brother’s broken pleas.

“I’m right here, Sam. Not going anywhere.”

Dean held his brother without trying to quell his sobs, knowing that Sam needed to release the pain and that he deserved the punishment of hearing it. His back and knees protested the position, but Dean refused to move until Sam was ready. He continued to sway back and forth, hand caressing Sam’s hair and shirt soaking up Sam’s torment as time slowly passed. Finally the soul-wrenching sobs subsided into hiccupping sniffles and Sam raised his head to look at his brother with red-rimmed, haunted eyes.

Erasing the wetness from Sam’s eyes with his thumb, Dean cupped Sam’s face. “Let’s get off the floor, okay?”

At Sam’s nod, he helped heft Sam to his feet, tucking him back beneath the petal hued sheets. “I’ll be right back.” Sam’s fingers encircled his wrist, grip tight enough to make the joint ache. Smiling reassuringly, Dean patted his hand. “I promise, Sam. I’ll be right back. I just want to rinse out the garbage can.”

Dean hurried, afraid to leave Sam alone for too long. Sam was on the bed where he’d left him, staring at the ceiling in an almost catatonic trance. Dean slipped down on the mattress next to him, arms coming around the younger man when he turned to him.

“Sammy,” rubbing a hand down Sam’s arm, Dean hesitated. He had so many questions, a burning need to know everything that Sam had suffered, but didn’t know how to ask. His brother had been through so much and Dean couldn’t bear the thought of adding more.

Sam rolled to his back, eyes fixing on the ceiling once again. His voice was quiet, but controlled. “There was something about him that frightened me from the very first time I met him. He stood too close and touched too much. But he was Dad’s friend.” Sam offered like that excused everything. Shaking his head, he continued, “He didn’t try anything, but he was always just…hovering, watching. Just there.”

Dean rolled to his side, his hand slipping into Sam’s and his fingers lacing with his brother’s lax ones.

“He called me Pretty Boy,” Sam whispered, like it was a confession, “Would tell me I was beautiful. That I needed someone to show me my place.” Sam shuddered. “Then everything went to hell with the basketball team and the computer and Schneider was knee deep in that. It was like he was wedging us all apart – alienating me from you and Dad. I got into that fight and you were so mad and I didn’t know why. It was like you were disgusted by me or that you hated me.”

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but Sam continued, licking his lips and fingers of his free hand absently picking at the edge of the sheet. “Then you beat the shit out of Mason at Mac’s viewing, talking about Schneider. I went to the gym,” Sam swallowed audibly, “to confront him. I had to know what he told you, what he’d said that made you hate me.”

This time Dean got the words out. “I didn’t hate you, Sammy. Could never hate you. I was worried.”

“It was like he – he was waiting for me,” Sam acted like Dean hadn’t spoken. “We fought and I was tied to the bench,” Sam’s eyes watered, remembering the feel of the cold tile beneath his body, the pain from the blows he’d already sustained, “and he…” Sam shook his head, his hair rustling against the crisp pillowcase, “I screamed for help, I called for…” His words died on a hitched breath.

 _You_. Dean’s mind supplied. _I called for you_.

Snuffling, Sam’s turned his face toward the wall again. “I begged,” he whispered, light through the window glistening off the tear tracks on his cheek, “I’m sorry, Dean, but I begged him.”

“Oh God, Sammy. Don’t be sorry,” Dean felt his own tears fall. He cupped Sam’s jaw and gently maneuvered Sam’s face until it hid in the crook of his neck. “Why didn’t you tell me back then?”

“I tried,” Sam’s words were muffled, pressed into Dean’s skin, “but it was like you and Dad were under his spell. It was right after the basketball team stuff blew up and Dad was still angry that I lied. He wouldn’t listen to me, thought I was making things up because I was mad at Schneider for ratting on me.”

Dean’s eyes widened, he remembered that argument which was saying a lot considering the sheer number of fights Sam and their Dad had during those years.

_“Dad, I have a question.”_

_“Yeah? About the hunt?”_

_“No.” Sam practically snarled, “Not everything is about the damn hunt!”_

_Dean could tell that he didn’t mean to say it, the surprise plain to see on Sam’s face as his eyes widened in realization of what he said._

_Dad stood slowly and Dean was reminded of a cobra readying to strike, restrained power lurking just under the surface. “I realize that, Sam. But I shouldn’t have to remind you how important what we do is. People are dying and we need to find this thing before it kills again. It may not be everything, but it’s pretty far up there.”_

_Dean felt trapped, frozen, seeing the fingers poised over the buttons that would unleash a nuclear war he was helpless to prevent. He knew that everyone was on edge with the possibility that they were hunting the thing that killed Mom, but what good was revenge if it came at the price of what family they had left?_

_Sam’s fists curled, “this isn’t about that. I-I want to talk about Nathan.”_

_Dean actually jerked back at that comment and Dad seemed equally mystified, looking hard at Sam, frowning. “What about Nathan?”_

_“I just—“ Sam appeared at a loss of where to begin and Dean could see his hesitation was not going over well with their impatient father. Sam licked his lips and tried to maintain eye contact. Dean was impressed by the effort, especially in the face of their father’s mounting irritation. “I-I don’t know. He—“ Sam paused, flustered and Dean knew that the next words weren’t what he really wanted to say. “He…told you about the basketball game on purpose.”_

_Dad raised a thick, dark eyebrow. “You broke your vow of silence to tell me you think Nathan tattled on you?”_

_“He said he forgot and he didn’t let you find out on purpose but I think he’s lying. I-I think…that…I just have a bad feeling about him. He can’t be trusted.”_

_There was a long, drawn out silence and Dean could only stare blankly at Sam, knowing that this was about to get bad on an epic scale._

_“Sammy—“ Dean started, hoping to defuse the situation._

_“What makes you say that? What evidence do you have?” Dad asked softly, like Nathan was a hunt. Dean could see Sam’s face light with a spark of hope that Dad would listen to him, but Dean knew that tone. It was the one that scared him more than the yelling and screaming._ The calm before the storm _._

_“I—I don’t have evidence. I. It’s…just a feeling.” Sam stuttered._

_Dad nodded slowly and then the neutral expression fell, his brows furrowing and his jaw clenching. Dean’s body instinctually braced for the thunder. “Look, Sam, I get that you’re upset about the damn basketball team. However, I told you not to join and you disobeyed me. And now you’re accusing Nathan, our friend, who once saved my fuckin’ life, of havin’ it out for you—for us?”_

_Sam winced, “No. It’s just—“_

_“It’s just that Nathan’s the one that let your secret out—that you had disobeyed me and were lying to me and Dean and now you’re accusing him of…what? Having some kind of alternative agenda?”_

_Sam frowned. “You always tell us not to trust anyone outside of this family.”_

_Dad barked out a harsh laugh. “You have a funny way of picking and choosing what to listen to.”_

_Sam flinched and Dean took a hesitant step forward. “Dad. Maybe…” But Dean trailed off, not sure what to say, how to come to Sam’s defense when he wasn’t sure that Sam wasn’t way off base as well. Schneider had been nothing but good to their family, gotten them somewhere to live and places for him and Dad to work. He was like an older brother to Dean, something that he didn’t realize he even wanted until it was presented to him._

_Dad went on like he didn’t hear Dean. “I’m tired of your attitude, Sam. Be a man and take the consequences; they’re yours and yours alone. You’re too old to be pointing fingers at anyone else.”_

“ _But Dad, he—“ Sam began but Dad had already dismissed him._

_“I hope you didn’t go accusing Nathan of any of this. You would have to apologize.”_

_Sam dropped his head in defeat, the fight gone out of him, his face resigned, “No. I didn’t, sir,” he said quietly, moving down the hall to the bedroom._

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean tightened his fingers threaded with Sam’s.

“After that fight, I didn’t think anyone would believe me.” Sam pulled back a little and settled his head on Dean’s shoulder.

A rush of cold air over his damp skin, coupled with the memory of Schneider telling Sam during his attack that he’d made sure that Sam’s family wouldn’t believe him, made Dean shiver.

“Besides, we left town the next day so I guess it all worked out.” Sam trailed a finger over Dean’s chest, tracing the outline of the pocket sewn on his t-shirt.

“Was it just the one time?” Dean winced at his own question. Like it only happening once, made it all better.

“Yeah, just that night in the locker room.”

Despite himself, Dean sighed in relief. A thought suddenly occurred to him and he tilted his head back to get a better look at Sam’s face. “How did you keep it from me?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably and tried to pull back, but Dean kept him close. His tears had dried, but his voice was still hoarse. “Burned the clothes I was wearing as soon as I got home, then wore a lot of long sleeves. It was fall so it didn’t seem out of the ordinary. When we got to Kentucky, our hotel wasn’t in the best part of town. I found this kid, Ryan I think his name was, and asked where he went when he needed…help. He told me to go to this clinic that worked a lot with the street kids and didn’t ask questions. They gave me some stuff that made it a little easier until I healed. They wanted me to press charges, but I told them I was jumped. Guess, it was a story they were used to hearing,” he shrugged.

“Where were Dad and I during this?”

“Trying to get information on the case. I was supposed to be in school,” Sam snorted, “Turned out to be a werewolf. I was never so glad in my whole life to get knocked around on a hunt. At least then I could act like I hurt instead of trying to hide it.”

Sam’s voice was so calm and accepting and Dean’s anger flared, “How can you be so damn calm about this? Doesn’t it make you mad?”

“Dean, I was mad. For a long time,” he raised up on his elbow. “Mad at Schneider for doing it to me, mad at myself for being too weak to stop him, mad at you and Dad for not believing me. You always wanted to know the reason I left for Stanford. I couldn’t be with people who didn’t believe me. I was so angry, Dad and I were fighting all the time, and knew that one day it was going to get really bad so I decided I needed to leave before that happened. I remembered Ms. Hill telling me about colleges so I applied.”

Dean sat and absorbed that for a moment. “What changed?” Dean asked. At Sam’s confused expression, he elaborated, “You said you were mad. What changed?”

“Jess.” Sam dropped back to the bed.

“Oh. You said that you met her at a group therapy thing,” Dean remembered. “Did she…was she…?”

Sam propped his head on his hand and put his other palm on the center of Dean’s chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. “A victim?” He noted Dean’s flinch at the word. “No, she was my counselor.”

Dean’s brow furrowed, “Isn’t it a conflict of interest to date someone you’re supposed to be helping?” He’d never questioned any part of Sam’s life with Jessica or the girl herself, but this seemed odd.

Sam studied his brother for a minute, pondering. “Dean, I think there’s something you should know about me and Jessica.”

Dean wasn’t sure he could take any more heartbreak today, but he nodded, knowing that Sam didn’t normally talk about his relationship with Jessica and never initiated the conversation.

“Jessica was in my Intro to Humanities course freshman year. She sat next to me during lecture and we were in the same study group. After two months of friendly banter, she slipped a card into my hand one day when we were packing up to leave class. It was for a support group for sexual assault victims. She’d been volunteering there and recognized the signs. It took some convincing, but she finally got me to go. I started to get some help, work through my anger and fear, and she and I became friends.”

There was a fond look on Sam’s face and Dean swallowed, “So things just progressed into a relationship from there?”

“That’s just it, Dean. There was no progression. Jess and I were friends, that’s it. We sometimes posed as a couple when we went out and neither of us wanted to be bothered, but other than a few kisses…”

“Sam,” Dean sounded exasperated, rolling on his back, “You only had one bed in your apartment.”

“Her apartment had mold. She’d only been at my place for a few weeks while she was looking for another apartment. The couch was a piece of crap that I got from Goodwill and we both refused to force the other to sleep on it. So, yeah, we shared a bed,” Sam shrugged. “She had her side and I had mine.”

“So, you’re trying to tell me that you had a hot chick in your bed and you didn’t sleep with her?” Dean couldn’t help his incredulous tone.

Sam’s eyes fell to the mattress. “Dean, I’ve only had sex with two people in my life. After what Schneider did, I just wasn’t interested,” he peered up through his bangs, “until you and I became, you know, _youandI._ ”

Dean sat up in bed, eyes wide. “Sam, are you trying to tell me that other than us, the only other time you’ve had sex was when Schneider…”

Sam gazed out the window, fingers plucking at the fitted sheet beneath them.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean felt nauseous, wondering where he put Sam’s garbage can from earlier, “then the other night I…” he clamped a hand over his mouth, his eyes getting impossibly bigger, “I tied you to the fucking bed and tried to…” he mumbled around his palm. “Oh God, you woke up bound with someone trying to…” Dean breaths were coming fast and shallow.

Sam waited quietly as Dean reigned his emotions back in. He’d wanted to know why his brother had done that to him, was headed to the diner to find out when Schneider got him. “Why, Dean? Why did you do that?”

“He said you talked to him about it, said that maybe I didn’t know you, and you were acting so strange. I thought maybe you were getting bored with me and needed more. I just wanted to show you that I could be more. I’m so sorry, Sammy. Oh God, please forgive me! I don’t deserve it, but I’ll do anything.” Black dots danced around the edges of water filled eyes.

“Dean, calm down. Breathe,” he rubbed circles over Dean’s chest. “Who? Who told you?”

Dean turned his devastated expression toward his brother and choked out, “Schneider. Schneider told me the night of the cookout.”

Sam nodded his head, lips pressed tight to keep the scream in. Schneider again. Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes at the thought of how much that man has cost him over the years. He not only destroyed Sam when he was sixteen, but his whole family, creating a break in their dynamic that became a chasm spanning the course of two years. Sam refused to let him do it again.

“I’m so sorry, Sammy. Forgive me, please. Please!” Dean’s cries were desperate.

Sam laid them both back on the bed, salt water falling from their faces to mix in the cotton blend of the pillowcase. “I forgive you, Dean. Always, Love.”

They clung to each other like children afraid of the dark. 

“Why would you go back there, Sammy?” Dean wiped his wet eyes and cheeks with the back of his hand “Why didn’t you tell me? You had to know that I would believe you now.” 

Sam rested his forehead against Dean’s shoulder, tears continuing to fall fast and heavy. “I thought I was past it, wanted to prove to myself he didn’t matter to me,” his body shook, “I didn’t say anything because I thought you’d leave if you knew.”

“Never, Sammy. I promise never to leave you.” Dean wrapped his arms tighter around his lover, kissing his temple.

Sam eventually cried himself out, sleep overtaking him swiftly. Dean lay awake watching his brother, marveling at the man’s strength. To endure what he had in the past and now and still be able to forgive, to love – Dean was in awe. He caressed the side of Sam’s face with his finger and leaned forward to press a kiss to sleeping lips.

“I promise, I’ll find him and make him pay, Sammy.” One more kiss, he rose and dressed, retrieving the gun and knife from the nightstand. Church-mouse quiet he left the room and made his way to the kitchen, where voices could be heard.

“Damnit, blink or something,” John groused at Castiel standing statue still in the corner, “You’re creepy.”

Castiel turned his head to the side and narrowed his gaze at the old hunter. “Blinking is not under my control, it is regulated by my host’s involuntary nervous system.”

“Leave the cherub alone,” Ellen laughed, nodding hello to Dean as he entered, “I think he’s kinda cute, myself.”

John grumbled, shooting a withering look at the angel before turning his worried attention to his oldest son. “How is Sam?”

Seeing the look on Dean’s face, Ellen excused herself with a comment on stocking the liquor behind the bar, leaving the two hunters and the angel alone.

“Better than I would be if my childhood rapist kidnapped me and tried to relive his good times.” Dean went to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup of the dark brew.

“Dean, I swear I never knew. I never even had an inkling that Nathan was capable of something like that,” John wrapped his hands around his mug, staring beseechingly at his son, memories of the tape running through his mind.

“If I thought you did, I’d be building your pyre right now,” Dean took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. “I’m going back. I want him dead, preferably in the slowest, most excruciating way possible.”

“Dean,” Castiel pushed himself away from the wall, “Schneider may have done some evil deeds, but he is still human.”

“Cas, this isn’t up for discussion,” Dean stared at the murky depths of his cup. He raised his gaze to meet crystal blue eyes, “Those evil deeds were done to my baby brother and that really makes me not give a good goddamn about what he is. As far as I’m concerned, all he is, is the walking dead. Now, I’m asking you to give me a lift. If you won’t then I’ll hotwire a fucking car, either way Schneider’s breaths are numbered.”

“Dean,” Castiel’s tone was placating and reasonable and made Dean’s skin crawl, “I care for Sam as well…”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Dean snarled, “You have no clue how much I love that kid or what I’m willing to do for him! So I suggest you quit before you say something I can’t forgive you for. So, are you going to help me or should I start checking out the parking lot?”

“Help us,” John added, quickly, standing next to his son, “You’re not going alone. I brought this bastard into our lives, let him get near my boy.”

Dean nodded, understanding his father’s need to be there.

“I still do not think this is a good idea,” Castiel muttered moving over to the two men.

“Nobody’s asking you to think. I just need two tickets on the Angel Express and for you to stay with Sam so he doesn’t wake up alone.”

Castiel raised his hands, “God speed.” He touched their foreheads and the two hunters disappeared.

  
*****

  
Sam rolled over seeking the warmth and comfort that should be next to him. Finding cold sheets, he blinked his eyes open and jumped back at the sight of Castiel staring down at him.

“Cas, the whole watching you sleep thing is a little creepy.” He knuckled the sleep from his eyes and sat up.

“I do not understand the meaning of this word ‘creepy’. I know that creep is a verb used to describe a movement slow enough as to go unnoticed, but I am not familiar with this ‘creepy’.” Castiel huffed.

“Sorry, pop slang. How about unsettling?” Sam swung his feet to the floor, stretching his back and arms.

“I was only watching over you like your brother requested before he left. If my guard unsettled you, then I apologize.”

“Dean left?” A cold shiver of fear slid down Sam’s spine. Did Dean decide it was all too much and leave? Decide that Sam wasn’t worthy anymore? “Wh-where did he go?”

“Your brother and father have gone against my wishes and returned to Pike Creek to deal with Nathan Schneider.” 

“Dad and Dean went after Schneider? And you let them go?!” Sam jumped to his feet and flung open the closet door. He and Dean had taken to leaving some clothes at the Roadhouse for when they visited. He slid hangers of flannel shirts along the bar searching for one of his while he slipped out of his sweatpants.

“I tried to reason with them, but they would not be dissuaded. They threatened to hotwire a vehicle and I thought it unwise for them to drive in their current mental states.” Castiel blushed at the revealed skin and turned his back. Normally he appreciated his Father’s work, but the recent revelations regarding Sam’s past made it feel like a violation.

“So you decided to send them off, half-cocked and wholly pissed, at Schneider? Cas, Schneider’s human. They can’t kill him, it’ll destroy them.” Sam shoved his arms through a button-up and quickly sought out a pair of jeans.

“That was the argument I tried to use, but they refused to listen.”

“Then it’s my turn. Take me to them.” Sam stared evenly at the angel.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REPOST FROM LJ*

Dean rolled to a stop and stared down the dirt drive. A battered green aluminum mailbox sat to the right of the aproned entrance with faded white letters painted on the side: SMITH. Through the dense trees he could just make the silvery shine of Piedmont Lake, the sun reflecting off the placid surface like spilled paint. Easing to the side of the road, he levered the Impala into park and looked over at his father.

John had been unusually quiet the whole time, barely speaking more than a handful word since declaring he was coming with Dean. Castiel had sent them to Schneider’s house where the Impala sat ready and waiting for its master’s return, and while Dean loaded up duffels with supplies, John stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the house, eyes dancing over the red clapboard. Dean kept flicking worried glances at the eldest Winchester, disturbed by the broken look on a face so normally stoic. 

“We can’t park any closer or we’ll tip him off. You gonna be able to handle this?” Dean jerked his chin toward the driveway.

John unconsciously rubbed his legs, peering through the forest trying to get a glimpse at the cabin hidden within, “You really think anything could stop me?”

Dean nodded, shouldering his door open and rounding the back of the car to unlock the trunk. He slung a bag over his shoulder and picked up Sam’s favorite pump action. Slamming the lid shut, he carried the supplies to the hood where John had his journal spread over the sun warmed metal.

“We’ll try this exorcism first,” John pointed to a page filled with Latin, “it works on most general demons. If that doesn’t work then we’ll move on to this one,” he flipped the page, “Bobby sent it to me hoping it would work on Yellow Eyes. It packs a more powerful punch and is better for higher level demons.”

“Dad,” Dean hedged, “you know exorcism might not work, and if it does, the man you knew is probably gone. Eight years is a long time to be possessed and the hosts don’t normally fare that well.”

“I’m aware, Dean,” John sighed, closing his journal and tucking it in the inner pocket of his jacket. Holding his hand out for the shotgun, he raised his eyebrows when Dean shook his head and dug the sawed off that he usually favored from the depths of the duffel bag. They loaded the first salt rounds into their weapons, knowing that the ammunition would do little but buy them some time.

Dean inserted the shells, one after another disappearing into the metallic mouth of the barrel. With a harsh jerk, he chambered the first round and turned to his father. “You ready?”

John stared in the direction of the house, the wearied lines around his eyes deepening with his scowl and giving him a harder look that aged his face. His fingers moved on muscle memory, sliding the twin cartridges into the waiting holes, and slamming the barrel down against the stock with a resounding metallic chunk. 

“Dad?” Dean knew this would be hard on the older man, but his need for justice, to exact a pound of flesh for Sammy’s pain, made him impatient.

John straightened to his full height, his broad shoulders squaring, and leaned his cane against the fender of the Impala. Nodding tightly, he started down the darkened driveway confident that Dean was following closely behind. 

The trek to the cabin was made slowly but surely, John’s breathing deep and controlled as he used force of will to master the pain each step jolted through his body. They remained on high alert, eyes constantly roving the tree-lined path for signs of ambush or attack, but encountered nothing in the darkness but the occasional hoot of an owl or brush disrupted by a small animal. Nearing the clearing where the cabin stood, they halted and surveyed the scene. Only the front window of the small log structure was lit, a shadow passed rhythmically behind closed curtains, a person pacing. Schneider’s truck was parked close to the side of the house, partway between their current hiding place and their destination. John motioned quickly, hands deftly telling his plan, and Dean nodded. Three breaths later, they scurried to the truck, using the hulking piece of steel as a shield. Dean shifted forward to peer around the front fender and see if they’d caught the attention of the man inside, but stopped at the dark smear he saw on the shiny chrome. Shaking fingers reached out and rubbed at the stain, pads coming away tinted. Licking it, he shuddered as the taste of old pennies flooded his mouth and spat on the ground.

_Blood. Sammy’s blood._

Thought took a back seat as red descended over Dean’s vision. He lurched forward, charging the cabin without the security of cover. He kicked the door open to reveal a surprised Nathan Schneider paused mid-step in the living room. Acting on years of training, Dean raised Sam’s gun and fired a round of salt directly into the man’s chest, the force of the blast knocking the ex-Marine back onto the couch. Dean was on him in a flash, punches landing fast and heavy with meaty thuds and crepitating cracks across the older man’s face. As blood coated Nathan’s skin, Dean’s blows lost some of their potency, knuckles glancing over slick skin, but what Dean lost in quality he made up for in quantity. Between one hit and the next, Nathan’s eyes rolled back in his skull, head vacillating on his neck with each continued punch. Dean barely registered the uneven clomps of approaching footsteps, his father’s hobbled gait, and reared back when a strong hand clasped his shoulder.

“Dean!” John stumbled back when his oldest turned to face him, eyes wildly feral before recognition flitted across the verdant depths. He’d seen Dean mad and he’d seen him pissed, but this was a whole other creature…this was hate, pure, raw hatred, and the intensity of it scared the older Winchester. 

Dean blinked, panting out his bloodlust in sharp, staccato breaths. He looked back at the swollen, bloody face of the unconscious man beneath him, his fingers throbbing in time with the rage coursing through his veins. He fisted a handful of Schneider’s school polo, lifting the unresponsive man from the couch to toss him on a hard-backed chair that John pulled over from the dining room table. He coiled rope, pulling it taut and cinching each knot tight until the surrounding skin puckered and reddened. Stepping into the kitchen he returned with a plastic super-gulp cup from a jiffy store and filled it with holy water from the bottle in his duffel. He tossed it on Schneider’s red-streaked face and watched as pale pink rivulets ran down cheeks and over jawbones as concussion-glazed eyes blinked open. 

_No smoke, no hissing, no curses to tear them apart._

Shooting a curious look at his father and receiving a similar one in return, they both turned back to the bound man now sputtering before them. Schneider’s eyes – one swollen half-shut and the white of the other blood red – blinked in confusion. Shaking his head, eliciting a groan, Nathan focused his gaze on the two men. “John? Dean?”

“Nathan? You with us?” John limped forward, hand coming down on Nathan’s shoulder.

“John, what the hell is going on?! Dean shot me with,” Nathan looked down at his barely bleeding chest. “What the fuck did you shoot me with?”

“Rock salt,” Dean answered, moving around to Schneider’s back to check the knots there. “Won’t kill you, but hurts like a sonuvabitch. Just needed to slow you down for a minute, fucker.”

“Rock salt? Why in hell are you shooting me with salt? Sarge,” he turned to John, “what’s happening here?”

John squeezed Nathan’s shoulder in consolation. “We’re going to help you, Nate. We know you’re not in control here and we don’t hate you, just the demon you’re occupying space with. I promise we’re gonna get it out of you.”

“D-demon?” Nathan’s eyes widened and he looked back and forth between the two men. “What are you talking about, demon? Last I heard you didn’t believe God existed. Oh God, you drank the Kool-Aid. Turned into some religious zealot. Please tell me you aren’t going to pull a snake out of that bag next.“

“Just trust us, Nathan,” Dean patted him on the back once then stepped away from the chair.

“Trust you? You shot me! You tied me up!”

“Christo,” John muttered. 

“Chris…what?” Schneider darted his wide eyes from John to Dean then back.

Dean flicked a glance at John. Holy water hadn’t worked, neither had invoking the name of God. Not even a wince. What the hell kind of demon…Dean swallowed hard remembering how Azazel had been unaffected by these same tests when he possessed John. His mind whispered with another possibility but he refused to give it a voice.  
John flipped open his journal, Latin flowing over his tongue like water, the words reverberating in the air. In the chair, Schneider’s face scrunched then he let loose a laugh.

“You reading me a story, Johnny boy? I knew that crash left you crippled. I didn’t know it left you crazy. Dean, come on, man. Your old man is losing it. You have to know that, right? He’s talking nonsense and going on about demons.” 

John continued without hesitation or falter, ending the exorcism with a flourish. He looked up from his book at the smug face of old friend and flipped the page, starting in on plan B. Dean observed Nathan carefully, that whisper growing louder and demanding attention. When John finished, he stared at the man regarding them.

“I don’t understand. That should have…” 

“It would have,” Dean stepped forward, his voice dropping in menace, “if he was possessed.” He leaned forward, hands resting on Nathan’s knees and face level, “But you’re not, are you?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Possessed? You’re both bat-shit crazy!” Nathan struggled at his bonds, knees jerking trying to dislodge Dean.

“Dean,” John’s face paled, “you’re not suggesting that…”

“Not suggesting,” Dean interrupted, “telling. He’s just human. Aren’t you?” He directed the question back to the seated man with a calm sneer. Nathan’s body spasmed as he fought the cower Dean inspired. Dean slowly slid his silver knife from the holster at his ankle and made a shallow cut along the coach’s forearm. Even knowing that there wouldn’t be a reaction, Dean’s heart sank at the confirmation.

“No, Dean,” John argued, shaking his head to emphasize his disbelief, “that’s not possible. Nathan wouldn’t…He couldn’t.” John faced his friend, “He-he saved me, fought beside me. He would never hurt Sammy. We went through hell and back together, I would know if he…”

“What is it that I, excuse me, this demon supposedly did?” Nathan asked, trying to make sense of the conversation, having a feeling that Dean already knew exactly what he’d done.

“You know damn well what you did!” Dean hissed through gritted teeth. Looking at John, Dean knew that his father was having a hard time believing that his friend, his buddy, had done those things of his own volition. He licked his bottom lip and thought for a moment of how to proceed. 

“Dad, some people change,” Dean pushed off Nathan’s legs, “and others were just better at hiding their true self from the beginning. You’ve seen the tapes, you saw who did it. Holy water, salt, silver,” he tipped the knife up, “nothing’s worked. You got something I haven’t tried, I’ll be happy to do it, but I think we both know it won’t matter.” 

Dean set the knife down on the coffee table then stripped off his leather jacket, folding it and laying it over the back of the couch. He went to the duffel he’d dropped by the door and carried it over to the squat table, pulling items from its depths and laying them out on the wooden surface alongside his dagger.

John stood by, trying to process everything as Dean’s words fell on his mind like truth. “You,” John breathed incredulously. “You!” He gritted out harder, hand flying to land hard across the other man’s already battered face. “You fucking bastard! You hurt my boy! I trusted you and you hurt my son.”

“Hurt…your…son?” Nathan stammered, voice slow with incomprehension. “John, what are you talking about? I would never hurt your boys. All I’ve ever tried to do is protect them.”

“You can drop the innocent act,” Dean said coolly, fingers curling around the knife he’d picked up from Schneider’s table and sliding it from its sheath. “I’ve seen the tapes. All the tapes. I know what you did to Peter Blackman,” Dean ignored the surprised look on John’s face. He’d never gotten around to telling John about the other tapes he’d found and now wasn’t the time to discuss it, “and Deputy Dan and,” he smoothed the flat of the blade against his flannel covered forearm and lifted his eyes, pinning the captive with hard eyes, “my Sammy.”

Nathan tried to hold on to the doe-eyed guiltless look, but it crumbled under the hollow knowledge in Dean’s eyes. The charade gone, he relaxed back, a conceited look replacing the false one of before. “Did you enjoy it, Dean-o? Did you like watching me put them in their places? It make you hard listening to your precious Sammy beg and plead?”

Before Dean had a chance to move, John rushed forward, fist flying and landing hard against Nathan’s jaw. “Shut the fuck up!” Shaking his hand, a numbing tingle radiating through his fingers from the impact, John cursed when the muscle of his right leg seized. Limping, he went to the kitchen and retrieved another chair, bringing it to the living room and sitting down heavily.

Schneider spat blood tinged saliva on the floor and grinned, his teeth painted red. “That’s right, Johnny boy. You sit down and rest while I tell you a story. See, once upon a time there was this pretty boy who was ignored by the ones he loved most. He was so young and sweet you could practically smell the innocence on him.”

“I think he told you to shut up, asshat,” Dean snarled, hand twirling the knife over and over.

“You’ve had a taste of that sweet meat too, haven’t you Dean? I’ve seen the way you two talk to each other, the way you touch, the way you look. You’re a bad boy, Dean,” he tutted, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “Couldn’t resist taking baby bro for a ride, could you? Guess you owe me a thank you for breaking him in for you.”

“Dean, what – “ John’s eyes searched his son’s face.

“You bastard!” Dean snarled, cutting off his father’s question. “Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for you.”

Schneider ran his tongue over the split in his upper lip, the tip coming away with a drop of crimson. “"What are you going to do? Huh, Dean? You going to kill me in cold blood? It's one thing to shoot a man in the line of duty; it's another to gut him with his own knife. I don't think you have it in you. So why don't we put the knife down before you hurt yourself with it?"

Dean huffed a humorless laugh, one side of his mouth quirking up in a hard smirk, as, off to the side, John snorted his own mirthless chuckle. "You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

“I know you aren’t capable of keeping your little brother safe,” Nathan baited, changing tactics in the hopes of goading Dean into making a mistake he could use to his advantage, “You both made it so easy. I spoon fed you lie after lie and you just gobbled it up. It was like taking virginity from a baby.” His mouth twitched into a macabre smile, his eyes challenging Dean to make the first move.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean swiped the knife across Schneider’s chest, fabric and skin giving way to the finely honed blade, connecting the dots where the salt rounds had penetrated the skin in a gruesome version of the children’s game.

Nathan hissed in pain as Dean paced back and forth in front of him. “Do it!” he snarled, “Kill me, if you think you can.”

“You know,” John said conversationally, voice detached but Nathan could see the twitch of muscle in his jaw, “the biggest mistake you can make is thinking that death is the worst my boy can do to you. There are a thousand ways of making you suffer before he kills you, hundreds and hundreds of ways to hurt you. You’ll beg for God and for mercy before he’s done and I can promise you that God’s not listening and you don’t deserve mercy.”

*****

Dean sat at one of the remaining dining room chairs, head in his hand. He’d been at it for over an hour, slicing Nathan’s skin with hundreds of shallow cuts similar to those Schneider’s betrayal left on his heart. Blood slowly flowed from the wounds in tributaries over pale skin, merging to create rivers that ran with gravity’s pull to fall in irregular drips into the growing pool under Schneider’s chair.

_And the third angel poured out his bowl into the rivers and the fountains of the waters; and it became blood._

Dean shook his head at the random verse, no matter how apropos it was. Contrary to popular belief, Dean had read the Bible, parts of it several times, even before he was up to his ass in angels. He spent most of his life in motels and even the seediest places were paid a visit by the Gideons. When he was younger, watching Sam while Dad was away, and late night cable programming failed him, he would pull the hardback volume from the drawer and thumb through it. He had to admit, from a militaristic point of view, the Old Testament battles were strategic genius. It always amazed him though, the parts that stayed with him over the years, creeping into his internal dialogue at the oddest times.

“How, Nate?” Dean rolled his forehead against his palm to look over where John was still sitting in his chair near Nathan. His father was considering Schneider with a look of confusion, his voice heavily laden with exhaustion. The anger that had burned so brightly, taunting Nathan as Dean carved, was gone, replaced by a desperate despair. “How could you do that? We were friends. You saved my life.” 

Nathan’s head lolled on his shoulders and the corners of his mouth pulled up in a cruel smile. He chuckled quietly, shaking his head.

“Tell me,” John’s voice was low, “I want to know.” When Nathan still didn’t answer, just continued smiling, John grew louder. “Goddamnit, say something! I want answers!”

“Want in one hand and shit in the other,” Nathan sing-songed.

“Why Sammy?” John continued his interrogation, ignoring Nathan’s words. “What made you go after my son? God, Nate, my son.”

Nathan let his head fall back and stared directly into John’s eyes. “Because he was there and I could. And let me tell you what, Johnny boy, your little Sammy or should I say not-so-little Sammy, he was the best fuck I ever had. So hot and tight and…”

“You sonuvabitch!” Dean snatched up the knife from the table and stormed towards the bound man.

“You gonna do it, boy?” Nathan sneered, watching Dean approach, rage lighting his green eyes with a deadly fire. “You gonna do what your useless daddy thinks you capable of? Huh? You gonna make me beg for death? Make me call out for God like your whore brother called out for you? You heard him on the tapes, didn’t you? Blubbering like a goddamn baby, crying for Dean and Daddy to save him,” he said the end in a mocking whine. “You know,” he leaned as far forward as he could while restrained and whispered, “that was my favorite part. It’s when I knew I’d truly broken him. It wasn’t me pounding into him until he was a bloody mess or the disbelieving betrayal that did it, it was knowing no one was coming for him. That he was all alone.”

“Enough,” Dean growled and swung the knife in an arc toward Schneider’s side, burying the blade to the hilt between his ribs with unerring precision. Nathan’s eyes widened in shock, coughing and sputtering as blood filled his windpipe and dribbled over his lips. Dean slid the knife free, wiping the bloody metal on the shoulder of Nathan’s shirt. Nathan gasped ragged, gurgling breaths, his chest moving asymmetrically as the left lung deflated and blood filled the empty space. Pink, frothy bubbles formed and popped along the gash. 

“A thousand ways, Nathan and that was just one,” John smirked, “Nine hundred and ninety-nine still to go.”

Dean slid the knife under the open neck of Nathan’s shirt, the tip dragging along Nathan’s collarbone, an angry red line appearing in its wake, then down the man’s chest, the sharpened edge catching the fabric and slicing it from collar to hem. He dipped the point into the shallow pockmarks left behind by the grains of salt and dug it into the pierce on his side, rotating the handle to widen the opening, tearing the muscles and allowing the blade to scrape against the surrounding ribs. 

John watched as Dean slid the knife free, blood soaking into the tattered remains of Nathan’s polo, and wiped the flat of the blade across his old friend’s toned stomach, smearing the smooth skin crimson in a serpentine pattern toward the waistband of the bound man’s chinos. “You know, us Winchesters believe in Old Testament justice.” His eyes traced the dripping zig-zags over Nathan’s abdomen then followed Dean’s hand as it guided the knife along the edge of the khaki material, skin pinking from the continuous movement and gentle pressure.

“Eye for an eye,” Dean said calmly, threatening point ghosting down, over where Nathan’s flaccid member was barely visible lying against his right leg. Nathan fought the overwhelming urge to fidget, worried that any movement might part him from precious pieces of his anatomy.

“Mmhmm,” John hummed, enjoying the sweat he could see clearly beading on Nathan’s forehead and neck. “Where they cut off your hand for stealing, your tongue for lying.”

“Your dick for raping,” Dean poised the knife straight down over where Nathan’s balls rounded out his pants as they lay against the hardwood seat. He pressed down and even though the bite of the razor sharp tip was muted by two layers of clothing, Nathan shuddered at the implied threat, his breathing shallowing even more. He turned to Dean and saw nothing but the cold detachment of his judge, jury and executioner. 

Dean pushed harder, the knife piercing through the double fabric, and Nathan whimpered. Pain seared between his legs, a warm trickle tickling the sensitive skin, and he felt the overwhelming urge to vomit.

“Nine hundred and ninety-“ 

“Dean, stop!” Sam’s voice was quiet, tired but rang with authority.

“Pretty Boy,” Nathan panted, “you come for that ride I promised you?” He chuckled, a raspy, wet sound, at Sam’s barely there gasp. “Little,” he coughed, “little tied up, right now, so you might have to do all the work.” 

Dean’s hand stilled, knife not moving forward or backward. He kept his eyes trained on Nathan and spoke over his shoulder. “Nice job keeping Sammy away from here, you oversized baby.”

Castiel stepped from the shadows, his narrowed eyes the only indication of his annoyance. “Your brother agreed that you should not have pursued this mortal and insisted that I bring him to you.”

“Pretty Boy! You brought your tax accountant boyfriend,” Nathan leered. “Is that your way of asking for a threesome?”

“Sammy,” John leaned forward in his seat, cringing at the lingering pain in his leg, not liking how pale his youngest had become, “maybe Cas should get you out of here. Dean and I have this covered.”

Sam shook his head and crossed the room, stopping behind Dean. “Dean, please. He’s human, just a man. You can’t – “ Sam trailed off.

“My hero,” Nathan breathed, swollen eyes fluttering as he tried to bat them, “come to – come to save me.“

“He hurt you, Sammy!” Dean argued, “He r- took from you, from others. He killed that Hill woman, that Bradford kid and Mason – your friend Mason. Because of him, Tracy Blackman is mourning her sons. He needs to pay for those things.”

“Yes, Dean,” Sam curled his fingers over Dean’s bicep, staying the arm before it could inflict anymore damage. His forehead dropped to the back of his brother’s shoulder and he murmured into the soft flannel, barely audible over Nathan’s rasping breaths, “he did those things and probably more we don’t know about and he’ll pay for all of it, but not like this. We have to let the law handle it.”

“The law?!” Dean laughed, the sound cold and cruel to his own ears. “We both know that the law is flawed. One little technicality and this shit,” he pressed forward against Sam’s grip, the knife cutting a millimeter deeper, “would be walking free. Free to hurt someone else. Where’s the justice in that?! He’s evil, Sammy. Just as evil as the things that we’ve sworn to kill.”

“Dean, please,” Sam pleaded again, tugging lightly on Dean’s arm. “You can’t do this. This isn’t what we’re about. This isn’t what you’re about. Human’s human, no matter how much evil lives in their heart. Please, don’t do this.”

“Sammy,” he protested, eyes flicking to John who sat in his chair, eyes volleying between his two sons. Their father’s face looked as conflicted as Dean felt – the need for revenge, for payback, warring with the inability to tell Sam no. He straightened, the knife still held firmly in his grip, but no longer threatening Nathan so intimately. His body still screamed for action, his heart beating in the thudding rhythm of battle.

“Please, Dean,” Sam circled around him, placing himself between his brother and Nathan and gently pushing Dean’s weapon wielding hand back further. Leaving his hand on Dean’s wrist and laying his other on Dean’s chest, he tried to get Dean’s focus on him. “I’ve followed you my whole life. I know you better than anyone ever has or will. This isn’t you.”

Castiel cleared his throat, reminding everyone of his presence, and stepped forward. "I will take charge of this....man, Dean. The murder of a fellow human would taint your soul and despite what you think, you have a pure one. I have seen it. You are a warrior, Dean Michael Winchester, a good man, a righteous man, and I will not allow you to damage yourself...your soul, over this stain of a human."

“Now wait just a minute, bird boy,” John stood, ire building, “Dean has every right…”

"I'm not righteous, Cas!” Dean spat, interrupting, and rounded on the angel, “I'm not God's warrior or an angel or some noble fucking hero. I'm a brother....a man whose lover has been hurt, and I want vengeance. I want to make this bastard sorry he ever thought he could take what didn’t belong to him, take what’s mine, and not you, God or fucking hell will stop me." He snapped his head back to Nathan when the man took a surprised, gargled breath and narrowed his eyes when the bound man’s pale face morphed into a knowingly smug sneer. From the corner of Dean’s eye, he could see his father’s tense form and he could feel Sam’s hand tighten around his arm. It hit him then that he’d called Sam his lover, revealed their most safely guarded secret to his father and his brother’s tormentor. He’d artfully dodged the issue earlier, only to confirm it now.

“Righteous means a lot of things, Dean, it does not necessarily mean you are saintly.” Castiel continued like Dean hadn’t just dropped the emotional equivalent of an atomic bomb in the room. “It means you have honor, that you are worthy. And you are. You are worthy of God's love, of your brother's. Killing Nathan will not give you Sam's forgiveness....saving him will. Do you think Sam wants his brother – his lover – the man he loves, admires and sleeps with every night to destroy his soul?” The angel paused, giving weight to his words and letting them sink into Dean’s mind. “I was sent by God himself to watch over you and your brother. I have seen how strong and dedicated you both are, and I am proud to call you both a friend as well as my charges. However, our friendship does not negate the fact that you, body and soul, are under my protection. I will not allow this....creature to damage you, physically or spiritually. I will deal with him, Dean. You will not kill him because I forbid it."

“Sent by God?” Nathan’s voice was thready, “Jesus, was it a five gallon bucket of Kool-Aid?”

“Shut up, Nathan or I’ll kill you myself,” John bellowed, “and you, you feathered freak, stay out of this. The word of your Father is bathed in blood so I think we’ve heard enough from the pacifistic harp player!”

“Do not try me, John Winchester!” Castiel’s voice boomed, rattling the windows, and lightning flashed casting the shadow of a large set of black wings across the wall behind the angel. Sam flinched at the noise and light and Dean reached back to lay a comforting hand on his hip. “Dean’s soul will not be forfeit over this man!”

"He needs to die!” Dean bristled, hovering the knife above Nathan’s heart. Than man’s lips were bluing and the veins of his neck were standing out in sharp relief. Bubbles popped at the site of his wound with each breath. “I’ve spent my life hunting evil things. He’s an evil thing! He tortured my baby brother, the man I love more than anything! He destroyed countless lives, raped and killed people, how does that not justify death? He deserves it and a damn sight worse!" Tears were flowing fast and hot down Dean’s cheeks, dripping from the edge of his jaw. He could feel Sam’s rapid, shallow breaths on the back of his neck and the heat of his body, where his brother had moved closer whether to seek comfort or give it, Dean wasn’t sure.

"Whether his actions deserve death is not in question, Dean, only your right to deliver it. I am sorry but on this I will not be swayed. I am taking Nathan Schneider far away. You will not see him again and he will be unable to harm another soul. That I can promise."

"So you get to kill him? What the hell, Cas?!" Dean seethed, the tip of the blade indenting the skin over Schneider’s sternum. John rose from his seat to stand near his sons.

"I never said anything about death. You hunt the supernatural...you must've learned there are punishments worse than death and rest assured I will put this to the test. Your brother will be avenged, as will all the young men he hurt. But death, death is the easy way out, a quick absolution for heinous sins,” Castiel’s eyes froze to glaciers and his voice hardened to steel, for the first time since the Winchester’s met him exhibiting the fear-inspiring nature of his kind, “He does not deserve quick."

Dean stared at the edge of the knife. _Two inches._ That’s all it would take and it would be over. Two little inches, less than the length of his thumb.

“Dean?” John’s voice was close and quiet, the normal authority and brass gone. “Son?”

“Dean?” Sam’s breath ghosted over his ear, strong arms snaked around his body, one around his waist and the other his chest. His warm hand rested over Dean’s heart, willing it to calm its racing rhythm. “Please!”

Dean stared evenly at the sniveling man before him, his wrist twitching in indecision before he leaned back into Sam’s steady presence. Closing his eyes, he rested his head back on his brother’s shoulder. “Sammy,” he breathed.

Thick, calloused fingers gently encircled his wrist while others slowly and carefully pulled the handle free of his grasp. “It’s over.”

Dean barely registered his father’s words, instead focusing on the tender hand rubbing soothing circles on his chest and the low words in his ear. A soft mantra on repeat. “Thank you. It’s okay. I’m here.” 

“Sam, puh-please. D-did you h-hear what he said,” Nathan panted for breath, bubbles of blood popping along his lips, “he was going to d-do to me? Don’t let them hurt me,” he weakly stretched his leg out to Sam in supplication. “Please!”

Dean turned, enclosing Sam in his arms, and pushed him back, away from the seeking foot, using his body as a shield as John moved between his sons and his former friend.

Lightning flashed again and Castiel suddenly appeared at Nathan’s side. “You have inflicted enough pain on Samuel. You will not address him again.” He reared back, his fist connecting with Nathan’s jaw in a violent uppercut that lifted the man and chair from the floor before they landed on their side. 

Castiel smoothed down the sides of his trenchcoat and rolled his shoulders. Turning to the three Winchesters, he considered their awestruck faces. “Do not forget that angels are warriors in God’s army, not harp playing pacifists.” He nodded, disappearing with Nathan with a touch to the unconscious man’s forehead.

John breathed out a sigh, turning to cup a hand around the back of his boys’ necks to bring them in close. He pressed a kiss to their temples, arms sliding down around their shoulders, holding them tight. Leaning his cheek against Dean’s forehead, he huffed a laugh. “Remind me not to pick on the tax accountant angel anymore.”


	19. Chapter 19

Dean walked out on the back porch of the Roadhouse and leant against the wood plank siding. The sodium light illuminating the kitchen entrance gave off a phosphorous glow, humming in harmony with the crickets in the surrounding tall grass, and attracted nearby moths, their hard bodies thudding on each suicidal pass. Southern rock slipped through the cracks of the weathered door and Dean let the electric guitar riffs and bass drum beats wash over him as he stared into the inky blackness, picking out the constellations he knew and making new designs in the ones he didn’t. It was peaceful here – more peace than he’d ever known – and he found himself shying away from the noise and excitement inside to soak in it.

It had been two days since the confrontation with Schneider. After Castiel flitted Nathan to angels-only-knew-where, he came back to find the three Winchesters still clinging to each other. He considered them with his cool gaze, disappearing and reappearing directly in front of them. The last thing Dean remembered was the angel’s gravelly voice saying ‘It’s time to rest’ then blackness. Dean was getting a little tired of the seraphic whammy every time Cas felt like it. He’d woken the next morning, curled protectively around Sam, in their bedroom at the Roadhouse, the Impala shining like polished onyx outside the window.

Sam had spent the majority of the last couple days sleeping, made difficult by the nightmares that plagued him, as his body futilely tried to catch up on the rest he’d lost over the entirety of their time in Pike Creek. Tonight was the first time he’d ventured out of their room for any length of time, Ash cornering him as soon as he stepped into the bar to talk about the new program he’d designed to hack into government databases. Dean had grown tired of the conversation and sought the refuge of being outside, knowing Sam would come find him when Ash inevitably got distracted by a pretty girl.

The door opened, the screen creaking on tight, rusty hinges, and Dean knew by the heavy tread that it wasn’t Sam. For a man of his brother’s size, Sam was surprisingly light-footed, striding with the grace, ease and surety of a cat – albeit a large cat. John moved stiffly to one of the crates that had once been home to a case of Jim Beam, but now stood on end to serve as a stool, and slowly lowered himself down. Rubbing at his leg, he tilted a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniels in Dean’s direction by way of offering and shrugged when his oldest shook his head.

Dean watched his father take a long draw from the bottle with a practiced ease that spoke of years of familiarity. After the accident, John had given up alcohol for the most part, the liquor mixing badly with the cocktail of painkillers he’d been prescribed, but it seemed desperate times called for desperate measures. It hadn’t escaped Dean’s notice that Sam wasn’t the only one scarce over the past couple days. He’d rarely seen his father and spoken to him even less. He knew John had a lot on his mind, a shit-ton of guilt and revelations to weed through – hell, they all did – but this level of avoidance made Dean uneasy. The fact that the man had purposefully sought him out and was drinking like Lynchburg was closing up shop didn’t bode well, and Dean’s unease only intensified.

“Dean,” John sighed, eyes sober and voice strong, and Dean relaxed marginally knowing that John’s bender had just started. If this conversation went the way Dean thought it would, he at least had in his favor that it wouldn’t turn violent. “I don’t know what’s worse about this whole fucked up mess. That you’re fucking your little brother or that the feathery bastard knew and is okay with it,” John took another swig from the bottle, “How could you do that to Sam? Whatever possessed you to fuck your little brother?” Another swallow, liquid courage to help him continue, “Jesus, Dean, what were you thinking? Were you bored one day and looked over at Sam doing research and thought I wonder what he’d feel like bent over that table?”

Any hope for keeping this civil went flying out the window at that and Dean could feel his anger careening though his veins. He kicked off the wall and stared down at his father. “Now wait a goddamn minute! Don’t talk about us like that!”

“Like what?” John’s laugh was just this side of manic, “Like its dirty? It is dirty, Dean. Hell, its illegal.”

“What do you want me to say? You want me to ask for your forgiveness? Your absolution?” Dean’s eyes went cold, “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. Is that what you need to hear?” 

John stood, squaring off against his eldest son, everything he’d been bottling up for the last few days rushing to the surface now that it had an outlet. They stared at each other, breaths snorting harshly. One a powder keg the other a closely hovering match, each possessing a dangerous potential in their own right, but together an explosive combination that could destroy any and all ties that bound them. Their stares held and Dean’s skin prickled at the tension.

John was the first to break the gaze, shoulders slumping and breath leaving him in a weary rush. “Can we not, Dean? Not right now.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, dropping back down on the crate.

“I really don’t think waiting is going to make this go any easier. If that’s what you want, though, Sam and I could take off for a while.” Dean eyed the bottle of Jack, now sitting half-full by this father’s worn boot, longingly.

“No! I just got you and your brother back, safe and sound. I…” John pinched the bridge of his nose, “Can you understand that this might be a little hard for a parent to accept? To understand? Even with our lives…”

Dean plopped down on the steps, elbows resting on his knees and hands dangling between his spread thighs. He stared off into the dark night and sighed, threading his fingers together. “I wasn’t bored one day. It wasn’t sudden or because he was convenient or because I was convenient. Sam says it was organic,” he hung his head and shook it slowly. 

“What do you say?”

Dean tracked the meandering path of an ant across the wooden step. “I, it’s…it’s just us.”

“You love him?”

Dean huffed a laugh, one side of his mouth twitching up. “All his life.”

John released a frustrated sigh. “That’s not what I meant, Dean.”

Dean tilted his head up and stared at the stars. “I know what you meant. Doesn’t change the answer. I can’t give him up, I won’t. I refuse, so don’t bother asking.” He leaned back, stretched out and, reaching back blindly, snagged the bottle. He took a slow sip, letting the alcohol burn his throat on the way down. “I found my line.”

They were quiet for a long time, Dean taking occasional sips from the bottle and waiting for his dad to process everything. He was fully prepared to take Sam and leave, drive until their father’s disapproval was a distant point in the rearview mirror. He’d walk through fire for John, but he wouldn’t walk away from Sam for him.

The jukebox inside cycled through two songs, only recognizable from where they were by the change in the syncopated bass line from one to the next, before John finally spoke. “What about the wrathful cherub? He really okay with this?” John shifted and Dean heard his boots scuff along the weathered wood as he stretched his legs back out.

“Yeah. Almost disturbingly so. Not sure the whys or hows, but he’s good with it. Something about Babylon and pure blood lines and I think, maybe, a hammer?” He shrugged and shook his head fondly.

“Hammurabi.”

Dean swiveled around, his father doing the same, to find Sam standing in the doorway, the screen hazing the kitchen light backlighting him so he appeared to be surrounded by an ethereal glow. With a groan of protest from the aged door springs and a handful of light footfalls, Sam sat next to Dean on the step. 

“Geekboy,” Dean nudged him with his shoulder, tender smile changing the insult to an endearment.

“Jerk.” Sam jostled back, plucking the bottle of whisky from Dean’s lax grasp to set on the porch behind them.

“Bitch.”

“Your bitch,” Sam answered, the easy banter falling effortlessly from his lips without thought.

The weight of their father’s gaze felt heavy on the back of Dean’s neck and he turned to see John regarding them with an odd look. His smile faltered and, eyes locked with John’s, he purposefully took Sam’s hand in his, linking their fingers together. Sam stiffened beside him, muscles tensing in preparation of the backlash, and Dean gently squeezed his hand. 

In the quiet of the night, when Sam lay awake with dry, tired eyes afraid to close and provide a blank canvas for his nightmares to paint, they’d talked about their father and his recent insight in their relationship. After Dean’s impassioned outburst and Castiel’s subsequent confirmation, deniability was no longer an option. That left them at the proverbial fork in the road, one bifurcation separating them for the sake of their father, the other possibly separating them from their father for the sake of them. Dean had already made it clear that the former was unacceptable.

His eyes were drawn back to Sam’s face, his brother’s gaze intent on him with eyes and lips softened into an affectionate expression that made Dean’s breath hitch and catch in his throat. Their relationship wasn’t about the sex – although that aspect of it was phenomenal – it was about this right here. This was what Dean was willing to turn his back on his father for, his life for. This was what was worth fighting for, dying for, killing for. This look in Sam’s eyes and the one Dean knew was mirrored in his own, looks they reserved only for each other. Love, transcending the bonds of brothers. All encompassing, all consuming, breathe for it, bleed for it, live for it, die without it, love. Sex was just a happy side effect.

John stared as his sons got lost in each other. He felt like a voyeur, an intruder in an intimate moment being shared by…his mind shuddered away from the word. As quietly as his gimp legs would allow, he rose to his feet, hooked the neck of the bottle with his index and middle finger and made his way back into the bar. Ellen eyed him warily as he crossed to the hallway where the bedrooms were housed, taking in the half-full bottle cradled to his chest with a quirked eyebrow. He dismissed her concern with a solemn shake of his head and continued on until the noise of the bar was shut behind the door of his room. He set the bottle on his dresser and flicked on the small lamp to light the night-dark space. Movement in the mirror caught his attention and he spun, ever-present gun aimed in the direction of danger.

“Jesus Christ,” he swore, uncocking the hammer on the gun and lowering it. “You know, Dean might not mind you popping out of his ass,” he winced slightly at the visual that conjured, “but I do. What the hell do you want, cherub?” He threw the nickname in just to see the tightening it caused around those steel hard eyes, forgoing his vow to not make the angel mad. He was tired and angry and lost. He wanted – needed – to vent the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. 

“Cherub?” Water blue eyes narrowed in the desired effect and the unassuming form straightened to its full height as energy crackled through the room – ozone and static thickening at the angel’s displeasure. “I am the angel of Thursday, one of the seven named by God to stand before his throne.” Large black shadows danced across the walls, unfurling and spreading to display an impressive feathered wingspan. “I am older and more powerful than you can imagine. I bore witness to the great war in Heaven, watched as the Morningstar fell, and as the first gray fish heaved itself out of the water and onto land. And, less you forget, I am the one that raised your sons from the brink of death and restored them to life and to you.” He cleared his throat and the shadow disappeared between one blink and the next. The angel continued in a calm voice, “You should show me some respect, John Winchester.”

John stood there and stared, refusing to give any form of apology. He’d handed out a precious few ‘I’m sorry’s over the years and he’d be damned if the angel that has taken his place in his children’s lives received one. 

Castiel heaved what could only be considered an irritated sigh when John didn’t respond. “I have come to speak with you concerning Dean and Sam.”

“What about my sons?” John picked up the bottle and sat on the bed.

“I can sense your trepidation at the nature of their relationship and wished to talk with you about it.” Steps sounded in the hallway outside and the door across the hall closed quietly – Sam and Dean retiring for the night.

“Nature of their relationship,” John snorted, swiping a calloused hand down his face. The look the two men shared outside floated to the forefront of his mind. His eyes narrowed and he peered over at the angel. “How are you so fucking okay about it? Shouldn’t you be smiting them or something?”

“You are confusing the laws of man with the laws of God. Incest is a mortal objection not a divine one. The greater sin is for humankind to believe they know the will of God. It was Hammurabi who deemed it …”

“Spare me the History of Law lecture,” John interrupted.

“As you wish. Just know my Father has never placed limitations on love in any form. There are worse things in Heaven and Hell, John Winchester,” Castiel stated sagely.

“I find that hard to believe. What can be worse than -,” he pointed in the direction of his sons’ bedroom with the neck of the bottle.

Those cool blue eyes focused on him, assessing and calculating, the intense scrutiny enough to make him shift nervously on the bed. “Seeing is believing, Thomas.” Castiel stepped forward and laid gentle fingers against John’s temple.

John was bombarded with images: Dean and Sam kneeling face to face on muddy ground, Sam’s mouth open and head lolling, Dean holding him with blood on his hand; Dean standing at a moonlit crossroads kissing a beautiful brunette with red eyes; Sam cradling Dean in an unfamiliar home, Dean’s clothes and body shredded, lifeless eyes set in a pale face splattered in red; Sam with a petite dark-haired woman, hand held out to a bound man under a devil’s trap, nose running red; Dean slowly emerging from the ground, nails ripped and knuckles bloody from digging his way to the surface; Sam shallowly slicing the arm of the dark-haired woman and lapping at the line of red that appeared as her eyes turned black. The scenes came quicker, flashing faster. The boys fighting and Dean repeating words John himself regretted saying long ago, the earth splitting in an old church and white light basking their petrified faces, distrustful looks in the Impala and then everything stopped on the image of Sam in a lush, green garden. 

Sam stood tall near a rosebush, face calm and serene with an underlying hint of arrogance and pride. The ruby red petals of the blossoms contrasted sharply against his crisp white suit. Over his shoulder, John saw Dean – older, harder, war-weary – pointing The Colt at the back of Sam’s head. Dean’s finger curled over the trigger, intent etched in every feature.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice was quiet and conversational and Dean’s face betrayed his surprise at having his presence detected, “it is only out of deference to Sam that I haven’t killed you, but that regard will only get you so far.” John frowned at the wording – deference to Sam?

Dean cocked the gun, the muscles in his jaw ticking with stress. “My brother is dead. You killed him and now I’m going to kill you.”

“I may have been the weapon, but you pulled the trigger.” Sam turned to face his brother, his impassive expression meeting Dean’s enraged one, and John was struck at how different it was from the loving looks they exchanged earlier on the back porch. “Sam was mine from the moment you turned your back on him. I consider myself an expert on fraternal betrayal and even I think that was excessive.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed and he pulled the trigger. John gasped and then blinked in surprise when the bullet sailed through open air. Sam was no longer there, but standing behind Dean. Dean spun around and with a quick move Sam leveled him to the ground, one white patent leather loafer pressing against his throat.

“Good-bye, Dean.” Sam pressed down and John flinched at the resounding crack of Dean’s neck breaking.

The scene froze before his wide eyes and John fought for breath. Sam had just killed Dean. Castiel stepped up beside him, a sympathetic look on his face.

“This was the destiny that Dean and Sam were headed for, one of several possible fates based on the choices they’d made,” Castiel nodded toward Sam hovering above Dean’s lifeless body. “Sam would eventually become the vessel for the fallen angel, Lucifer, and Dean would die at his hand.”

“Were?” John asked hopefully, his voice thickly laced with emotion.

“Yes, were. Their decision to act on their feelings irrevocably changed the path their lives were on. This is no longer their future,” he waved his hand and the vision dispersed like smoke, leaving John with the sight of his stark room at the Roadhouse. “Do you believe me now that there were worse things than your sons finding their soulmates in each other?”

John dropped heavily on his bed, face buried in his hands. His body was shaking, each image burned into his mind. Lives of brotherhood that led to blood and death. Numbly, he shook his head.

“I am certain that you will do what is right.” The angel awkwardly patted John on the shoulder.

They both turned as cries echoed through the wood paneled walls. John quickly went to the door and opened it, the sounds of anguish and fear washing over him from the closed door across the hall. 

“Don’t, please! No! Dean!”

John leaned against the doorframe and stared at the flat expanse of wood that separated him from his tormented son, restraining himself from charging in, knowing, with a heavy heart, that he wasn’t the soother of Sam’s nightmares anymore. He could just make out the soft shushing sounds of Dean trying to wake Sam, the words indistinct but the tone low and cooing.

“Please! Please help!”

John closed his eyes on his son’s panicked pleads for help, but refused to move from the open doorway. This was his fault, he deserved the pain of hearing the unanswered calls Sam made for them. That was my favorite part. It’s when I knew I’d truly broken him… it was knowing no one was coming for him. That he was all alone.

“Dean—De! Dad! Daddy!”

A warm hand encircled his, startling John, and pulled the door shut. “Dean is caring for Sam,” Castiel voice was different, less gravel and more comfort, “There is nothing to be gained from subjecting yourself to his cries.”

“I deserve it,” John voiced his earlier thoughts, resting his head on the door. “This is all my fault.”

“I believe the culpability for Sam’s suffering lies with Nathan Schneider.”

“Don’t you understand, you heartless ass,” John raged, spinning in place, hands fisting in his anger, “I took him there, I introduced him to the man that attacked him and I was the one that didn’t believe him when he told me something was wrong.” He pivoted, his fist connecting hard with the door and splintering the wood outward. He stared at the crater he’d created as the rage was replaced with overwhelming grief. “I’m his father, I was supposed to protect him. He’s my baby boy and I just handed him over to a monster that raped,” he choked on the word, “him.”

Castiel watched was John hobbled over to the dresser. Pictures were wedged between the mirror and frame, some of the few that had been spared in the fire. He traced the tip of his fingers, bloodied from punching the door, over the image of him and Mary, outlining her delicate features and ghosting over her smile. “I made a promise to Mary after she died, after I couldn’t save her,” he amended, “that I would always protect our sons. I failed. I failed her and I failed them,” he whispered, head hanging low as tears he hadn’t cried since his wife’s death streamed down his face.

Castiel approached the eldest Winchester and, with slow movements, gently took the damaged hand in his own. Leading him to the bed, he cupped the torn skin and broken bones in both his hands and allowed his healing warmth to engulf them. 

When the angel released him, John stared at his newly mended hand through a veil of salt water and shook his head despondently. “It’s no wonder they’ve replaced me. You’ve saved them, twice now, when I couldn’t. All I’ve ever done is tear their lives apart, but you, you, put them back together. All I ever was to them was a drill sergeant.”

“Your sons love you. They would never replace you,” Castiel stared at the wall opposite the bed, nodding to himself. Sam’s cries had stopped and the only sound he could hear was the dulcet tones of Dean singing softly.

John huffed a laugh, “I don’t know why. I damn sure don’t deserve it.”

Castiel’s blue eyes glanced at him thoughtfully, “That is the second time you used the word deserve. Maybe the time for flagellating yourself for what you believe you deserve is over and it is time for discussing what it is you want.”

“What I want?” John swallowed, head falling back and wet eyes cast upward as he bit the inside of his cheek. “You moonlighting as a djinn now?” He rolled his head toward the angel whose only response was a raised eyebrow. Looking back at the ceiling, he sighed. “Lots of things. I want for none of this to ever have happened, I want Mary alive to see how her boys grew up, I want the boys to have known their mother, I want my damn leg to be good again, I want my sons to be happy, but the thing I want the most is to be forgiven for what I did to them.”

“That is within your reach.”

He straightened his head out, stretching the tense muscles in his neck. “You gonna forgive me? I confessed my sins to you and now you’ll give me reconciliation?”

“It is not my forgiveness that you seek. Sam is the only one that can lessen the burden on your soul. You need only ask for it. I can give you a modicum of peace though,” he placed a hand on John’s shoulder and a sense of calm flowed through the hunter’s mind and heart, “and a word of counsel should you choose to accept it.” Castiel stood and walked to the dresser, plucking the picture of John and Mary from the mirror and examining it. “Ghosts do not make good companions. Memories can make you dwell on what you’ve lost and blind you to what you have found. Don’t cleave so hard to the past, John Henry Winchester, that you forget to live in the present.”

John came up beside him and took the picture, running his thumb along the worn edges. “Mary would have liked Ellen.” He saw Castiel nod his head in the mirror and set the picture down on the dresser. His eyes took in the other photos, landing last on one of him and the boys sitting on the Impala. He studied Sam’s innocent face, smiling up in Kodak color, and tilted his head to the side. “Castiel?”

“Yes,” Castiel eyed the man in confusion.

“Can I ask a favor?”

  
*****

  
Dean combed fingers through Sam’s hair as he sang softly to the sleeping man. Sam had come to bed and fallen almost immediately into an exhausted sleep only to be taken by a nightmare almost as quickly. Dean’s heart ached hearing his little brother’s cries for help, and for him, and he did his best to wrestle Sam from the dream’s grip as quickly as he could. Sam clung to him as he calmed his breathing and heartrate, ear to Dean’s chest using his brother as a metronome to set the pace. Dean hummed to him quietly, hands soothing over fear-sweat covered skin and lips pressing reassuring kisses to forehead and temple. 

“What are we going to do now?” Sam voice was small and subdued.

Dean curled his arms around Sam and pulled him tightly to his chest. “Try to go back to sleep?”

“Dean,” Sam sighed wearily, “You know what I meant. They’re going to ask and it would be nice to know what to say.”

Dean rested his cheek against the top of Sam’s head and nodded, the silky locks tangling in his stubble. “We’re going to take some time off. We’re not brushing this under the rug. You need time to heal and you can’t do that and hunt. It’s too dangerous.”

Sam leaned up on his elbow, looking down at his brother. “Dean, I might not be healed for a long time. Even with Jess and the support group, it took a while last time.”

Dean was quiet for a minute, eyes shining in the fading moonlight seeping through the thin curtains on the wall. “Then I guess we’d better find someplace to rent,” his mouth quirked thoughtfully, “I’m good with my hands, so I could get a job as a mechanic or in construction or something. With that big brain of yours, I’m sure you could find something pretty easy.” 

“Wait. What?” Sam jerked back in surprise. “Just like that, you’re going to give up hunting and settle down?”

“Yes, Sam,” Dean rose up and mirrored his brother’s position, hand coming to rest on Sam’s hip, “just like that. I’d do anything to make sure that you were okay, were happy. Don’t you know that? Hunting isn’t the most important thing in my life, you are. We did what we meant to do. Azazel is dead, Mom is avenged. It’s time we had something for ourselves, something that didn’t lead to an early grave.”

“I-I don’t know what to say,” Sam stared at him with wide eyes. 

“Don’t say anything,” Dean smiled softly, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to Sam’s lips, “Just think about what type of place you’d like us to have.”

Sam followed Dean’s lips as they pulled back, chasing the intimate touch. They met again and the simple presses quickly turned hungry, mouths parting and tongues dancing. Dean’s hand skimmed the waistband of Sam’s boxers, pinky dipping below the elastic to tease the sensitive skin at the top of Sam’s crack. 

Sam froze instantly, cold sweat erupting along his skin and he gasped against Dean’s mouth. Tears sprang to the corners of his eyes and his hand came up to press against Dean’s chest. “I-I…”

Dean leaned back under Sam’s urging and took in the terrified look on his brother’s face. Carefully, he pulled his hand from beneath the cotton and smoothed it up Sam’s back. “I’m sorry, Sammy. It’s okay.”

Sam shook his head harshly, face apologetic and pained. “I-I’m sorry,” he gently bumped his fist against Dean’s chest and buried his face in Dean’s neck, “I’m s-so sorry, Dean.”

Dean enveloped him in a tight embrace, lying back, cradling him against him and peppering kisses to any part of Sam’s head he could reach. “Don’t apologize, baby boy, you haven’t done anything wrong. Nothing is gonna happen unless you’re ready for it. It’s all on your schedule. I’m not going anywhere and we’ve got all the time in the world.”

Sam melted in Dean’s arms. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, baby boy. Always have, always will.” Dean rocked them gently, humming a few bars before he allowed the lyrics to flow. “ _Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…_ ”

*****

  
Dean jerked up from the bed, something waking him from the light doze he’d fallen into. One hand automatically slid under the pillow, fingers wrapping around the grip of his Taurus hidden there, and the other lightly rested on Sam’s chest beside him, ready to wake or soothe depending on what the situation called for. The door to their room opened and in the gray pre-dawn light he could just make out the silhouette of his father, hands raised in surrender. Considering for a minute, Dean slowly slipped his hand out from under the pillow and rubbed gentle, lazy circles over Sam’s heart. 

“Come on, Dean. There’s something you need to see,” John’s voice was just barely a whisper and Dean relaxed slightly at the absence of malice or anger.

“Dean?” Sam stirred at the sound of his father’s voice, fingers reaching out for his brother and curling over Dean’s arm. This was something that Pike Creek had changed. Sam was clingier than he used to be, hands unconsciously seeking and body heedlessly gravitating toward Dean at all times, reassurance in touch and body heat.

Dean studied his father for a minute, hand still caressing Sam. “Sssh, Sammy,” he leaned close to murmur in his brother’s ear. “Go back to sleep, baby boy,” he nuzzled the shell with the tip of his nose and pressed a kiss to Sam’s temple, “I’ll be right back.”

Sam made a sleepy sound of protest, but a kiss to the neck quieted him. Loosening his grip, he rolled over and nestled into the pillow again. The sheet was pooled around Sam’s waist, his back bare to the cool air of the room. Dean’s eyes raked over the tanned muscles, smoothing a hand over the goosefleshed skin until his fingers ghosted over the scar on Sam’s lower back. He traced the handprint, following the curve of each finger and the roundness of the palm, Castiel’ reminder of Sam’s resurrection. The sound of weight shifting reminded Dean of his father’s presence and he turned to see John’s eyes trained on where his hand was outlining the distorted skin with an odd look on his face.

Frowning, Dean cleared his throat to gain John’s attention and pulled the blanket up to Sam’s shoulders.

Careful to not jostle the bed, Dean rose and shifted through the discarded clothes on the floor until he found his jeans from the day before and pulled them on. Grabbing the first shirt he encountered, he headed to the door, shivering in the chilly morning air. He squinted at the shirt, realizing now that it was Sam’s as he turned it right side out, and threaded his arms through the appropriate holes. Hooking his thumbs in the neck opening to pull it over his head, he noticed his father staring at the scar on his shoulder, the twin to the one of Sam’s back, with the same odd expression. Tugging the shirt on, he quirked an eyebrow at his father, whose only response was to jerk his head toward the hallway.

“What is it you wanted to show me, Dad? I don’t like leaving Sam alone right now,” Dean threw one last glance over his shoulder at his sleeping brother before shutting the door with an almost inaudible snick.

“It’s something that Castiel is going to show the both of us, but trust me you’ll want to see it. We won’t be gone long.” John motioned toward his bedroom door and followed Dean to it.

“Castiel?” Dean’s eyebrows rose, “What happened to ‘feathered freak’ and ‘cherub’?”

John hesitated for a minute, “We’ve come to an understanding.”

Stopping in front of the closed door, Dean looked at his father. “An understanding?”

“Yes,” John huffed. “The faster we do this, Dean, the faster you can return to Sam.”

At the mention of his brother’s name Dean’s attention snapped back to the door to their bedroom, head tilting in a move that John wasn’t completely sure Dean was aware of, and listening for any indication that Sam needed him. Apparently satisfied that Sam was still peacefully slumbering, Dean nodded and pushed his way into his father’s room.

“Good evening, Dean. You are looking well,” Castiel stood near the window, looking out on the misty fog settling over the landscape.

“Cas,” Dean acknowledged. “Dad says you have something to show us.” 

Castiel nodded once, sharp and precise, then moved quickly to stand before them. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Dean asked at the same time John answered, “Yes.”

A touch, blackness, then Dean was standing on shaky legs in the middle of a white hallway, walls lined with doors on both sides with a window set at eye level in each. The chemical smell of antiseptic mingled with the slight nausea of angelic transport and his stomach churned threateningly. “Damnit, Cas! You gotta quit doing that.”

Castiel’s face was unapologetic and, dismissing Dean’s protest, he pointed to a door on the right. Brow furrowed in confusion, Dean stepped forward and peered through the glass. Inside the room, in a straight back chair facing a large window, was Nathan Schneider. He sat staring unblinkingly at the world outside in a set of pale blue scrubs and matching slipper socks, face placid and the fingers of his right hand tapping restlessly against the arm of the chair.

Dean spun around, shifting to the side to afford John the opportunity to see. “What is he doing here?”

“He will live out the remainder of his days here,” Castiel answered simply.

“You think this is sufficient punishment for what he did!” Dean bellowed, incredulously. 

“Dean,” John’s hand cupped his son’s elbow. 

“No, Dad!” Dean snatched his arm away. “This is bullshit! He fucking tortured Sam, r-,” Dean swallowed, “raped him and all he gets is a padded cell?”

John grasped Dean’s arm more firmly and pulled him into Schneider’s room. The man in the chair didn’t respond to their entrance, just continued to stare out the window.  
“I agree with you, Dean,” John told him, hissing a forced calm voice through his teeth, “but getting us kicked out of here won’t do any good.”

“Dean,” Castiel stepped closer, “I think you have misunderstood. This isn’t the extent of Schneider’s atonement. He was judged by Heaven and subjected to their justice.”

“Yeah,” Dean laughed humorlessly, “I can see how harsh their justice is,” he waved his hand toward the healthy and whole looking man ignoring their presence. “What did you do tickle him with your feathers until he peed himself?”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed at him and John was reminded of the angel’s temper in his room earlier. “Schneider incurred the wrath of Heaven and I can assure you that not even the horrors of Hell can compare to it. I guarantee he has suffered for his egregious faults.” 

“Cas, it’s only been three days.” Dean’s voice was lower, but the edge to it hinted that it could increase again at any moment. “People suffer longer from the flu.” He stared at the monster that had dared to hurt his Sammy and his fingers itched for the cool steel of the gun resting under his pillow.

“Here,” Castiel corrected, “In Rhapsody and in Damnation time moves differently than in the mortal world. For you, it has been days. For him, it has been decades. Thirty years to endure the most creative castigation that the Holy Host could envision.”

“Then why is he here?” John asked, startling Dean, “I’m not sure I can abide by Heaven allowing him to live after everything he’s done.”

Schneider’s fingers jerked spastically at the sound of John’s voice, the tapping growing more insistent and louder than before. Now that Dean was paying attention, there seemed to be a pattern, a rhythm, to the staccato bursts. Curiosity pulled him closer and he rounded the man to face him fully for the first time. 

Schneider’s face was blank, his mouth slack and eyes staring vacantly forward, the only sign of life within was the rap of nails on wood. Dean waved his hand before the man’s face, snapped his fingers close to his eyes and clapped his hands next to his ear to no avail. Green eyes flashing with hatred surveyed the seated form before zeroing in on the hand, trying to decipher the pattern.

“What’s wrong with him?” Dean asked the angel, eyes remaining on the dancing fingers as his mind filtered through why the beats seemed so familiar.

“Schneider was punished to the extent of ecclesiastic power for nearly thirty of your years. Although he has been returned to this world, the psychic pain from his penance has left him mute, trapped in his own mind. A mind that will be filled with memories of the torment he suffered there until the end of his natural life.”

“So, he’ll spend the next thirty or forty years reliving his time in Heaven?” Dean’s eyes widened as his father spoke and Nathan’s harsh tapping of fingers elevated to him banging his whole hand.

Castiel nodded. “Interspersed with experiencing each of his attacks from his victim’s perspective. It was decided that if Sam was forced to live the rest of his life with the memories of his attack that Schneider should share the same fate. It was one of Uriel’s more brilliant ideas. Once he succumbs to his natural end, he will begin his eternal damnation.”

Dean nodded, impressed despite himself as he watched the bouncing hand. “Dad, is that…?” He motioned toward Schneider’s hand.

John focused on the fingers. “Morse code? Yeah, I think so.”

“You know what he’s trying to say?” Dean pulled his eyes from the hand to look at his father.

“Been a while,” John concentrated, mouth working out the letters Schneider was spelling, “Sorry?” He turned to Castiel. “Can he hear us?” John asked, moving to in front of his former friend. 

“Yes, he is aware of the world around him, just unable to interact with it.”

John leaned forward, lips hovering over Nathan’s ear. “You can be sorry all you want, you motherfucker, but I will never forgive you. I trusted you and allowed you to manipulate me, turn me against my own blood. That is my transgression and we all have a penance to pay. The angels were merciful. This pitiful, tortured existence is better than you deserved for what you did to my son, but I have faith that the demons in the pit will more than make up for it.” He stepped back from the broken man, smirking at the flash of fear in the empty eyes of the man he’d thought was his friend before moving away. “I’m ready.”

“Wait! I have something I want to say to him.” Dean bent closer, whispering words only for Schneider, “You should know you were wrong, you never broke him. He’s going to get better and you will be a bad memory he tries to forget. You will never see or touch him again. You were right about one thing, though. Sammy is mine…in every sense of the word. While you sit here and relive what you took from him, know that I am somewhere relishing in what he gives to me,” moving away he sneered down at the man. “You never broke him,” he repeated “My Sammy was too strong for someone like you to do that. I wish you a long life, you earned every minute of it.” 

Dean walked back over the Castiel and John. “Sammy never sees this, never even hears about it,” he said seriously, “Even after everything, Sam would feel guilty about this Worthless piece of shit and I refuse for Schneider to get any of his sympathy.”

“I agree,” John concurred as Castiel nodded his agreement.

“Let’s go. I want to get back to Sam.”

  
*****

Dean’s feet hit the floor and he sat down heavily on his father’s bed. “Cas, I swear, you ever do that to me again, I’ll clip your wings.”

There was a knock on the door a moment before Ellen poked her head inside, glowering at the damaged door. “Morning John,” she frowned at the three men, “oh, uh, hey. I was going to go down and start breakfast if y’all are hungry. Dean, I think Sam’s still asleep. If he’s going to want something to eat, you’ll have to wake him.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” He stood, locking his knees in the hope they wouldn’t buckle. Walking past Ellen, he gave her a peck on the cheek.

“You going to join us, cherub?” Ellen graced the angel with a warm smile.

“You are a kind and generous and possess a beautiful soul. I would like nothing better than to stay and bask in your presence, but I must decline,” Castiel smiled charmingly, “I have a few things to attend to.”

“Okay, angel face,” she smiled and John frowned at the slight blush on her cheeks. “You’re welcome anytime,” she winked playfully, “I could use some help with the bacon, if you don’t mind, John?” Her forehead wrinkled at the scowl on John’s face. 

“Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute.”

“O-kay,” she repeated and shut the door.

“How come you didn’t give her the ‘I’m the great and powerful Oz’ riot act?” John crossed his arms over his chest. 

Castiel shrugged, “She’s more aesthetically appealing than you are.” 

“Is that what the ‘you have a kind and generous’ blah, blah, blah was about? Nerdy, angel flirting?”

“I do not believe there is anything wrong with my flirting. I learned it by observing the best.” If possible John thought Castiel looked indignant. 

“The best?!” His arms relaxed, “What do you consider the best? Revenge of the Nerds?

“No, my knowledge of human sexual interaction has been garnered from watching Dean and a brief viewing of the movie Pizza Slut. Now if you’ll excuse me, “ he vanished in a flutter of rustled feathers.

“Pizza Slut,” John repeated dumbly, blinking when he realized the angel was gone. “Stay away from my woman!” John yelled to the empty room.

  
*****

  
John stepped out of his room, headed for the kitchen to help Ellen with breakfast, at the same time as his sons. Sam’s eyes went to the floor upon seeing him and John could sense the tension rolling off the boy in waves. Clearing his throat, he squared his shoulders. “Dean, you mind giving me and Sam a minute?”

Dean’s eyes volleyed between his father and his brother, lingering until Sam gave him a barely perceptible nod. “Yeah, uh. I was going to go and start the Impala anyway. Haven’t moved her in a few days and it’ll be good for the engine to run for a little bit.” He leveled Sam with a serious look. “Yell if you need anything.” Squeezing Sam’s hand once, he gave his father a hard, warning glare and walked down the hall.

“He’s been a tad overprotective since, you know,” Sam shrugged, scratching his arm.

“I don’t blame him. Can we go inside and sit down?” John motioned toward Sam and Dean’s bedroom.

Sam nodded and went inside, sitting on the unmade twin bed, leaving the still dressed one for his father. “What did you want to talk about?” he asked, staring at his clasped hands in his lap.

“God, Sam, I don’t even know where to begin,” John sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I take that back, I do know. I’m sorry, Sammy. I am so sorry.”

Sam’s head snapped up, “What for?”

“Everything? For your life, how I raised you, yanking you around like an accessory instead of my son, putting the hunt before you and your brother, for taking you to Pike Creek, introducing you to that bastard,” his voice thickened with emotion, “for not believing you about the lies, for letting him hurt you, all the fighting, the things I said, making you leave. Take your pick. I’m sorry for all of it.” He blinked rapidly trying to staunch the tears before they fell.

“Dad, you did the best you could with us growing up and you didn’t know any of the shit about…him.” Sam’s face was pale and drawn, the stress of the last few weeks depleting any reserves he had, and a tear fell from John’s eye at the sight.

“You tried to, Sam, and I wouldn’t hear any of it. I was too wrapped up in finding the thing that killed your mother, I lost focus on what was important.” John raked his hands through his hair and stared at his worn work boots, “What kind of father doesn’t believe his child?”

Sam didn’t speak, the question was rhetorical and he couldn’t come up with something to say to contradict his father’s statements. The minutes ticked by slowly without more from John and Sam finally broke the silence. “Why,” he cleared the lump in his throat, “why didn’t you believe me?”

John looked at his son with sad eyes. “I guess it started with the shit about the basketball team – lying to us about it and keeping secrets. When Nathan was right about that, it was easy to believe he was right about more. When you accused him it just seemed like you were trying to throw suspicion off of you onto someone else. Hell, I taught you that when dealing with hunts so it wasn’t a stretch to think you’d use it in other parts of your life.” 

“Didn’t hurt that he was your friend, someone you trusted, and that we weren’t on the best of terms at the time,” Sam offered. 

John stifled a sob at the reminder that he had trusted Nathan and not his own son. “That too. We were fighting all the time, you challenging me and me trying to force my will on you. You were so different from Dean. I mean you were always the more sensitive one, but you also had this strong will that I didn’t know how to handle.” He took a deep breath. “You know, my dad left when I was young and I don’t remember much about him,” he held up his hand when Sam opened his mouth to interject. “I’m not using that as any kind of excuse. It’s just, from what I do remember? You’ve always reminded me of him. He was smart and sensitive and determined, like you. Maybe one of reasons I was so hard on you was because you were so like him. I don’t know.” John’s stomach churned at the admission. “Did I ever tell you, you were named after him?” At Sam’s head shake, he nodded. “You are named after both your grandfathers. Samuel was your Grandpa Campbell’s first name – hard son of a bitch, hated my guts – and David was my dad’s middle name. I didn’t want it, but your mother thought it was only right to honor both sides.”

“Dad,” Sam tried consolingly, mind wondering briefly who Dean was named after. A great uncle? A cousin? Great grandfather?

“No, Sam. None of that matters,” he waved his hand, dismissing Sam’s concern. “What matters is I let that monster hurt you. I didn’t protect you. I know you called for us. I’ve heard you cry out when you’re having a nightmare. I’m so sorry, Sammy. We should have been there, I should have been there. I will never forgive myself for not being there.” Tears fell over stubbled cheeks as John leaned forward, elbows on his knees and face buried in his hands.

Sam got up and crossed to the other bed, kneeling on the floor at his father’s feet. “I forgave you.”

“W-what?” John looked at his son incredulously.

“I forgave you,” Sam repeated, softly, “a long time ago. Yes, I went to Stanford because I was angry and hurt, but I met Jess there and she helped me work through what happened last time. She supported me and gave me time to deal with everything.”

“Your girl, right?” 

“My friend,” Sam gently corrected. “And now I have Dean. He’s gonna get me through this time. We all have to quit blaming ourselves for everything. It’s like our legacy, and it’s got to stop. You were not responsible for what he did to me. There’s nothing to say that even if you’d believed me, he wouldn’t have found another way to get to me.”

John nodded, not really believing yet but hoping he might in the future. He looked up at Sam and saw the unsure look on his son’s face. “What is it?”

Sam hesitated, biting his bottom lip. “Do you know what Cas did to him? Did he kill him?”

John didn’t miss that Sam hadn’t used Nathan’s name at all during their conversation and when John used it Sam would shudder. His lips pressed into a hard line and stared at the empty space beneath the other bed, remembering his, Dean and Castiel’s agreement that Sam should never know Schneider’s fate. “I’m sure whatever the angel decided, it was less than he deserved. There is no punishment harsh enough for hurting my boys.” He reached down and pulled Sam into the first hug he could remember giving him since Sam was a young child, eliciting a surprised noise from his youngest.

John closed his eyes and held on tight. Slowly opening them, something under the bed caught his eye. Recognizing the shape, he tensed around Sam.

Sam felt the change and leaned back, following his father’s line of sight to the bottle of lube under the other bed. He quickly got up and shoved the telling item into the nightstand drawer. Running his hand through his hair, he sighed. “I know you don’t like our relationship, but we need each other. I heard you last night. You think Dean took advantage of me, but I swear, Dad, he didn’t. I love him and he loves me. More importantly, I trust him. Before Dean, Schneider was the only one that I,” he gestured vaguely toward the drawer.

“Oh,” John felt his face flush and gave himself a moment to regain his composure. Slowly, he stood and grasped Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, listen. You’re my son and I love you. I’m just going to need a little time to get used to this whole…” It was John’s turn to gesture, waving his hand over the disheveled bed.

Sam nodded, “We’ll give you all the time you need. Just tell us when you’re ready.”

  
*****

  
Sam sat back on the bed as John left to go help Ellen, muttering about how she would burn his bacon if he didn’t show up soon. He flomped back on the mattress, weary from too little sleep the night before and the already emotionally exhausting morning. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he blew out a hard breath. Might as well get it all over with at once.

He sat up and ran his hands over his thighs. “Cas? Can you hear me? I need to talk to you.” 

“Sam,” Castiel appeared by the door, “you wished to talk to me?”

“Yeah,” Sam stood to face the angel, “I wanted to thank you for, you know, helping me and for not letting Dean kill him.” 

“There is no gratitude necessary, Sam. You merit nothing less.”

“Still,” Sam said uncomfortably, “I, uh, wanted to say thanks.” He held out his hand.

Castiel glanced down at the outstretched hand then back up at Sam. In two steps, he wrapped Sam in his second unexpected hug of the day. “It’s what human friends do.”

Dean opened the door and stopped in shock. “Did we all fall into Bizarro World or something?”

Castiel relinquished his hold on Sam, who stood there still dazed by the act, and cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me.” He smoothed the lapels of his trenchcoat and disappeared.

“Dude?!” Dean held his hands out. “What the hell? Did you just get groped by the virtuous virgin?”

“No clue. I was thanking him and the next thing I know he’s hugging me.”

Dean shook his head, bemusedly. “I repeat, what the hell? You’re in here getting touched by an angel and I passed dad in the hall and he frigging hugged me.”

“Dad hugged you?”

“Yeah, hugged me and told me he loved me and that he needed some time.”

Sam smiled, “Me, too. Maybe retirement is softening him.” He moved forward to hug Dean just to wipe away the confused look off his face.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Dean wagged a finger at him. “You don’t touch until you wash bird boy off of you. Probably got feathers in your hair or something. Smell like a cloud.”

Sam laughed, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck and pulling him in for a hug despite his protests.

“Oh crap,” Dean huffed, fighting the smile that Sam’s laugh threatened to bring out, “this hug stuff is contagious, isn’t it?” He tucked his head into the crook of Sam’s neck, inhaling his scent and hiding his smile against the warm skin, as his arms came around his brother’s chest. “Gonna have to look up antidotes.”

  
*****

  
John stumbled into the kitchen, staggering under the weight of so many emotions in such a small amount of time after suppressing any sort of feeling for so long. He grunted a reply at Ellen’s cheery greeting and moved with single-minded focus toward the coffee maker. As he poured a cup, two packages of bacon landed on the counter near his hand. 

“Do both packs, since Dean could eat a pound by himself,” Ellen considered him carefully. “Rough night?”

“You can say that again.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No,” John answered sharply, “Think I’ve been flayed alive enough for one day, thank you. Don’t need you to take up the knife.”

Ellen nodded, tugging a carton of eggs closer to the mixing bowl in front of her. “Part of this have anything to do with Dean and Sam being DeanandSam?” She asked innocently, plucking two eggs from the Styrofoam container and cracking them on the side of the bowl.

“What?” John spun around, sloshing coffee over the side of his cup and burning his hand. “Shit!”

“Here,” Ellen came over and guided his hand under the faucet, running cool water over the reddened skin. “So, Dean and Sam?”

“Part of it,” he grudgingly answered. “How did you know?” 

“How did you not?” She kept her eyes trained on John’s hand, tenderly rubbing the area around the burn. “I’ve suspected for a while. Always thought it was a matter of time,” she shut off the water and grabbed the dishtowel. “They’ve only had each other through the years. No one will ever understand their lives, will ever love them more than each other. You may have a hard time with it, but it’s not your place to judge, and I for one am glad that Sam has somebody like Dean to help him through everything that happened.” She wrapped the towel around his hand. “You can’t condemn love, John, not in this life. Too few of us are lucky enough to have it.”

John started to say something but was interrupted by Jo and Ash coming in the door. “Morning, Momma. Need help?”

Ellen stepped back from John, smiling at her daughter. “Nope. If John will stop crying over a little scald and get on that bacon we should be good to go in a few minutes.” She winked at John and went back to her bowl to stir the pancake batter.

Snorting, John grabbed a knife from the block and sliced open the plastic casing on the bacon. 

  
*****

  
Ellen set a tray piled high with pancakes on the table where everyone was gathered and turned to grab the plate of bacon, frowning at the undercooked pieces. Why she asked John to cook it she never knew. He always took it out of the grease too early. Sighing, she sat down and set a few slices of the meat on her plate, passing the tray to Dean.

“Leave some for the rest of us,” Jo scolded when Dean snatched a large helping.

“Don’t you have your own house?” Dean snarked, folding a whole piece in his mouth.

“God, you’re disgusting,” Jo threw a biscuit at him that he deftly snagged out of the air.

“You wuff me,” Dean mumbled around his mouthful then checking that Ellen wasn’t looking, opened his mouth to show the chewed food.

“Like a stomach virus.”

“Enough!” John slammed his hand on the table, his sons snapping to attention at the command. “You two are worse than a bunch of kids.”

Sam rolled his eyes and nodded his thanks to Ash when he passed the plate of bacon, lips twitching as he tried to beat back a smile. This was what he’d always wanted. Family, banter, safety, home.

“So what will you two do now? You got another case lined up?” Ellen asked, watching as Sam eyed the limp strips ruefully. 

“No,” Dean stabbed a couple of the fluffy flapjacks from the top of the stack, “we were supposed to be on vacation before Cas found us about that last…” he paused, “case. I think we’re going to go ahead and take the downtime.” They’d talked about this this morning before coming back downstairs, finishing the conversation from the night before. “Go back to Pike Creek and get our things from the apartment. Sam wants to visit Mason’s grave and Mrs. Blackman. Then we were thinking of heading to California. Do some things there that should have been done a long time ago.” 

The trip to Palo Alto was Dean’s idea. He’d attended Jessica’s funeral for Sam’s sake with the detached involvement of someone who didn’t know the deceased. Now that he understood the role that Jessica had played in Sam’s life, he needed to go and truly pay his respects. He needed to thank the young woman for being there for his brother when Dean wasn’t. He owed her that much; he owed her everything. “After that, I think we’ll settle down somewhere for a little while. Sam,” he stopped and looked over at his brother to see if it was okay to continue. Sam nodded, smiling reassuringly. “Sam thinks,” he cleared his throat, “we think that Sam should talk to someone about what happened…before and now.”

“You’re going to quit hunting?” Jo leaned forward in her seat. It was no secret that she’d wanted to hunt and she couldn’t understand why the boys would give it up.

“Not permanently,” Sam answered quickly, chewing the partially cooked bacon, hoping to hide his grimace, “Just want a breather.”

“You thought about where you might settle?” Ash asked, gaze unfocused like he’d strapped on one too many the night before.

Dean and Sam traded glances. Before Pike Creek, they’d been heading to the Roadhouse to spend more time with their father, but now they weren’t sure if they’d be welcome. John’s reaction to them hadn’t been the most encouraging and Dean wasn’t sure if the conversation he’d had with his father hadn’t done more harm than good. At least before that, John could still be delusional and think that it was a passing phase.

“Hadn’t decided yet.” Here, Sioux Falls, Blue Earth. Dean mentally ticked off places he knew they’d be safe.

John cleared his throat, eyes concentrating on the syrup cascading over the side of this pancakes. He looked over at Ellen and his heart warmed at her smile. “We’ll need to get you a bigger bed, but when you’re ready, come home. Your room will be waiting.”


End file.
